


Lilacs Out Of The Dead Land

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: And Geralt is just tired, At least he's trying, Bears, Betaed, Blood and Injury, But she figures it out, Camping, Ciri And Geralt Work Stuff Out, Ciri Helps Geralt, Ciri is Confused, Ciri is kind of good at medical procedures, DO NOT move people with hypothermia roughly, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel is basically the awesome uncle who interprets Geralt's feelings, Gen, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Apologizes, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia is Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon's Parent, Good Parent Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hypothermia, I am a registered EMT and I am cringing at my own work, Injury Recovery, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Not always done right tho, POV Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Roach is the Best (The Witcher), Soft Eskel (The Witcher), Sort Of, Spirits, Supernatural Elements, The Author Regrets Nothing, They figure stuff out, Tired Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Witcher Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, Worldbuilding, Worried Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, or you will cause cardiac arrest, thank you for coming to my Ted Talk, they're all just trying their best
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-11-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 79,692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25575814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: After returning with Geralt from Sodden, Ciri finds herself distanced from the man who is supposed to be her father. Confused about her past and searching for answers about her own abilities, as well as why Geralt seems so distant, Ciri turns to the other Witchers for help. However, when Geralt asks her to come with him on a trip into the mountains, Ciri sees a chance to finally get to know her new father better. On the road, though, things take a turn for the worse.This story is inspired heavily by my relationship with my own dad, and is an excuse for Geralt to finally open up to Ciri and understand that good family relationships involve giving on both sides.
Relationships: Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Eskel, Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel & Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Lambert, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Vesemir
Comments: 113
Kudos: 139





	1. Spring

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, and welcome to my newest adventure into long multichapter fic writing. This idea came to me while I was on vacation and got in quite a bad bouldering accident, which led to me having a lot of spare time to write. Unfortunately, it also involves me projecting a few of my woes onto Geralt, but if you've read my previous work that should be par for the course by now. I'm not sure exactly how many chapters this will have, I'm aiming for ten or so, hopefully. However, I always have loft ambitions that somehow fall short...oh dear. I hope you all enjoy, please feel free to leave kudos or a review if the mood strikes you!
> 
> Thank you so much to the fantastic RoachIsJudgingYou for betaing this! Their writing is amazing, you should for sure check it out!

The air was hot and heavy; filled with the smell and flavour that only springtime can bring. All about the valley, the trees were alive with the courting songs of birds, and the buzzing of insects as they emerged from their winter cocoons and nests deep underground. The sun was radiant in the high noon sky; evening often fell early in the Morhen Valley due to the high peaks. So the residents did their best to enjoy the sunshine when it graced them with its presence.

As she took all this in, Ciri wished she could take a brief moment to rest and take it all in. This was her first spring in Kaer Morhen, and it was very different from the dreary, coastal springs of Cintra that she had grown up knowing. She loved it. The air was bright with energy, and new life. It felt vibrant, and the vibrancy transferred easily over to her mood. It had been a long time since the Cintran princess had been able to describe her mood as joyful or vibrant. There was an ache in her chest since the destruction of her home that never truly went away. Each pound of her heart reminded her of what she had lost. But now, enveloped by the beauty of the springtime in the mountains, of her new home, the new friendships and burgeoning relationships she had forged here, Ciri was reminded also of what she had gained. She breathed in the air and fingered her sword softly, and leapt gracefully down from the roof of the turret she had been sitting on. Her soft leather boots scuffed on the stoney floor of the balcony as she landed, and her breath exhaled gently through her lips, becoming one with the spring air around her. Several months ago, Ciri would never have dared attempt such a feat. But now, with hours of training and drilling behind her, she felt free and brave. Perhaps, she thought, this was what Geralt felt like all the time. He had so much raw energy at his disposal, though he rarely chose to show it. Ciri had tried not to question him about his past, about why he was so closed off, even around her. She knew everyone had scars to bear. Witchers more than most. Still, it ached that she struggled so much to get to know him. He told her that he cared for her, that he would go to the ends of the Earth to protect her. But Ciri had no family, not anymore. And more than anything, she hoped to find a way to show Geralt that she wanted and trusted him to fill that void.

Padding softly down the stairs, Ciri ran her hand along the rough stone walls. No one came up here much, she knew that. Geralt had shown her places where no one else would find her. He knew how much she valued solitude. It had been one of the first things he had done when they arrived at the Keep. Ciri was still incredibly grateful for his intuitive understanding of how she needed to understand her pain. It was so freeing to find one place where she was not hunted, after so many months of being treated like a rabbit running from a hound. 

The air was softer and more humid inside the stairway. It lacked the vibrant, urgent energy of the springtime outside, but what it lacked in urgency it gained in mystery. Ciri could still taste the vague crackling aura of magic that hung about the whole Keep, even after months of living here. It felt like ozone on her tongue, and it made all the hairs on her arms stand on end. She hadn’t quite worked up the nerve to ask Geralt about that particular new sensation yet. In many ways, she felt as though he expected her to just intuitively understand all these new experiences and feelings. Geralt was old, older than Ciri could guess. Perhaps he was so unfamiliar with new experiences that he didn’t even have the words to express what it would be like. And, truth be told, Ciri didn’t want to disappoint him. Didn’t want him to think she was complaining about her wonderful new home, after all that it, and he, had given her. The uncomfortable tension and flavour of magic was a small price to pay for her safety and the kindness the Witchers of Kaer Morhen offered her. It was the first time since the sacking of Cintra that Ciri could truly dare to say she felt loved.

Licking her lips softly to try to remove the flavour, Ciri wandered the narrow halls, hoping to come to the library. After months, she had only just gained the ability to navigate the half-ruined Keep effectively. There were still some times that she found herself in an unexplored wing, rife with full chests and lost memories of long dead boys. The wind blew freely in those wings; in some places snowdrifts piled in amongst the shredded upholstery, even in springtime. Ciri tried to keep herself from thinking that a very similar thing was probably happening in her old home in Cintra. The thought always managed to creep in, though. It made her feel empty, like a vessel that had been poured out and forgotten on some dusty shelf. She shook herself. The halls here were large enough that only foolishness could cause her to get lost. Gently, she brushed a hand along the rough stone, feeling its coldness. The library was always warm; Geralt had found her furs to wrap herself in on the cold winter nights after discovering she was unable to regulate her temperature in the same way he could. And there was always a fire burning in the hearth. Ciri had wondered more than once if that had always been the way, or if it was a practice Geralt had forced the others to adopt to assuage her constant coldness. It seemed like an awful waste of firewood for the ever-practical Witchers.

The door to the library was open, as usual. Ciri slipped in as silently as possible. She had had one too many bad experiences waking Lambert while he was stretched out in front of the hearth. However, there was no one inside. Just the hearth crackling merrily. Someone had left a pile of books next to an armchair by the fire, and in the corner the small sofa that the various inhabitants of the Keep occasionally collapsed upon after drinking too much was piled high with scrolls.

“Eskel?” Ciri called out tentatively. He was always in the library, researching and reading. Usually he took his meals here as well. It made sense, she thought. The library was the centre of the Keep, the point of convergence. And Eskel was the point of convergence for the energy of the inhabitants, a bright spot in a grim place. His openness and light and gentleness was one of the first things Ciri remembered about her arrival at the Keep. Even now, his presence was a welcome balm to keep her thoughts from drifting back to darker times and things.

There was a shifting in some far-off nook of the library, followed by a distinct smell of musty parchment. Ciri perked up her nose a bit. The smell reminded her of home. She had spent many hours playing in her grandmother’s study while the Queen signed and sent off rolls and rolls of sweet-smelling paper.

“Ciri? Is that you? I have something to show you.”

Eskel, then. None of the other Witchers had much time for her during the days, when they all went about their various tasks and chores about the Keep. However, Eskel had been helping her discover more about her heritage and the possession of Chaos in her family during his spare time. As another individual born with uncontrollable Chaos, he had been sympathetic to her plight. 

Wending her way back through the teetering towers of scrolls and books, Ciri found Eskel knee-deep in leather bound tomes. He was holding one in his hand, licking his fingers and flicking through the pages. Though he must have heard her coming, he didn’t look up until she was standing right next to him. Then, he leaned over so she could see what he was looking at.

“It’s a pedigree,” Eskel said excitedly, although he caught Ciri’s confused look and clarified quickly, “A family tree. Of the royal houses of Cintra. It goes back far further than any of the other ones I’ve been able to find. And I think this one may have some markers showing Chaotic ability.”

Eskel had already explained to Ciri that there had been a time in Cintra where magic had been outlawed, so she was surprised that any such document existed. Eskel ran a calloused, scarred finger over the spidery chart, drawing Ciri’s attention to small indentations in the paper at certain names. They were nearly impossible to see, and if Eskel hadn’t drawn her attention to them Ciri would have missed them entirely.

“I knew some of the people on here,” he explained, “Princess Rianna, here. She’s your great-great grandmother. And I know for a fact that she had well hidden Chaos. So, from that, as well as a few other examples, I can guess that these indents are denoting Chaotic potential. I can’t find a pattern, or where the Chaotic abilities were introduced into your lineage. But, two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

Eskel settled himself on top of a pile of scrolls and moved over, leaving room for Ciri to join him. She sat down, curling her legs underneath her, enjoying the sweet, peaceful smells and sounds of the library. Eskel handed her a stack of scrolls.

“See if you can find any records here of any of the people with indents,” he said, “Perhaps it will offer us some insight into whether they had a better understanding of their magical abilities.”

Settled comfortably, Ciri lit a small candle. Eskel didn’t need light to hunt through the dusty tomes of the library, but she couldn’t see without it. The candle wax was nearing the bottom of the tray; she had spent many nights over the last month reading here instead of sleeping. Eskel had pretended not to notice, but she could tell by the concerned tilt of his eyebrows that he was well aware of her sleepless need to gather information on her past. She hoped he would keep it a secret from Geralt. He had enough on his mind without worrying about her personal musing into her past.

Countless hours passed, and the candle had all but turned into a puddle when Ciri finally looked up, massaging a kink from her neck. Her search had been mostly fruitless, although she had managed to find some interesting records denoting Princess Rianna’s interest in the occult. Realizing what had disturbed her from her reading, Ciri looked up and saw Lambert at the door, waiting, fingers tapping impatiently on the wainscoting. Eskel had clearly already seen him; probably smelled him as he was making his way up the stairs, but had been waiting for Ciri to notice.

“You’re getting faster, Ciri.” He nodded with approval, although Lambert just rolled his eyes and leaned back languidly.

“Not fast enough. I could have killed you ten times before you even realized I was there. Soup’s in the kitchen, if you want to get your nose out of your books and come eat with us.”

Ciri knew the last comment was more directed at Eskel, but she still felt herself bristling. Knowing about her family and her abilities was important, deeply important to her. She scowled at Lambert and stood, dusting off her shirt and pants.

“Manage to catch something bigger than a rabbit tonight?” She quipped, feeling irritable. She had yet to see Geralt today, and she wished he had dropped in to talk to her. He was elusive, but she desperately wanted to come to know him better. Still, she supposed it was unfair to take out her frustrations on Lambert, no matter how much of a prick he was being. She swept past him as imperiously as possible and made her way down to the kitchen for dinner. It smelled strongly of onions and ale, and she followed her nose to where the other inhabitants of the Keep had already gathered. None but Geralt looked up as she entered, and he only offered her a small nod before going back to polishing a small blade, painfully indifferent. Ciri thought she saw a flicker of frustration cross his features, but dismissed it as a trick of the light and seated herself next to him, serving both of them some stew from the pot in the middle of the long wooden table.

“Thank you.” Geralt looked up at her and nodded, and Ciri couldn’t mistake the strange look in his eyes for anything other than confusion and frustration now, “I have something I want to talk to you about, later. That is, if you’d like. I know you’re busy with your research.”

Geralt’s hands were twisted into a tight ball in his lap. If Ciri hadn’t known better, she would have thought he was nervous. In an odd way, that gave her hope. Perhaps this was his way of trying to get to know her, of trying to find some way to connect with the daughter he barely knew.

“I’m not busy,” she returned, catching his eye and offering a small quirk of her lips, “Perhaps we could tend to the horses tonight? I know Roach needs brushing.”

Working off the assumption that Geralt was feeling nervous to speak to her was an odd position to come from, but from what little she knew about the Witcher, she knew he would be most comfortable around his horse. If she really wanted to get to know him properly, it was probably best to do it somewhere where he wasn’t completely out of his depth. Ciri was well aware that, while Geralt had spent years trying to find her, he had never planned for the eventuality of what he would do when he brought her home. Eskel had told her as much, with a wry smile on his lips. It was frustrating, though, to feel as though he was continually avoiding her due to the fact that he didn’t have a plan of attack. She wasn’t a kikimore. Although, she supposed, after a while of living your life according to one pattern, that pattern would come to encompass every interaction you experienced. Everyone Ciri had ever known had lived according to a mould, which was nigh on impossible to break. She hoped, though, just this once, that it would be possible for her to break it. She longed for something more than a distant sense of attachment with Geralt. There was no one else she had left.

The rest of the dinner passed in silence, although Eskel shot Ciri a sympathetic look. She had expressed her frustrations about Geralt to him more than once, and he had reassured her that she was not the only one who felt this way. It was little comfort. Ciri longed to be someone’s daughter. As much as she would have hated to admit it, it was important to her to have someone. Someone who was something more to her, for more reasons just than that destiny had ordained it.

Ciri slurped the last bit of stew off her spoon loudly, and felt a bit of satisfaction when Lambert glowered at her. She bit the spoon loudly between her teeth, and watched his eyes crinkle as they clattered together. He had been in a particularly foul mood the last few days, and the small, immature, vindictive part of her enjoyed returning the discomfort that he so often inflicted upon her. Eskel stomped on her foot under the bench. She ignored him, stood, vaulted over the bench gracefully, and exited the room. She needed a moment alone before she met Geralt. Her heart was pounding a little. With some surprise, she realized she and Geralt had not had a conversation alone together since their journey back to Kaer Morhen from the farm near Sodden. She swallowed and drummed her fingers anxiously on her leg. Her foot jerked up and down, an anxious habit that Eskel hated. 

The main hallways were well lit; torches held proudly in iron brackets that looked as good as new. Ciri knew the remaining Witchers did their best to keep the well-used parts of the Keep in good working order. Taking a few carefully timed turns, she left this area, and returned to the colder, unkempt rooms. The rooms that echoed with loss and death; sometimes so loudly that Ciri could hear the voices of the dead boys who had lived here. She wondered if Geralt, or any of the other Witchers, heard them too. If it was a part of daily life at the Keep that, like so many aspects of life here, was an unspoken truth, an inescapable fact just so much as the blood that spilled over every inch of the castle’s floors. She sank to the floor in one of the abandoned rooms and closed her eyes, breathing deeply. Meditation was another skill that she had yet to master. Another way in which she felt lesser than, inadequate almost, in a Keep full of men who were in complete, iron control of their minds. Her head slumped back against the stone wall and bounced uncomfortably. Incontrollable thoughts pushed against the inside of her skull, swirling and threatening to overwhelm her. What if she wasn’t enough? What if, as the closest thing Geralt would ever have to a daughter, she had already let him down? What if the reason he couldn’t formulate a way to engage with her was because she was simply too different, too human? She suppressed a groan, not wanting every Witcher in the Keep to know she was experiencing such turmoil. Outside, the stars in the sky began to wink down at her; the distant chattering of the birds growing fainter and fainter as the valley faded into a crepuscular evening glow.

\----

Ciri must have fallen asleep like that, legs drawn up to ward against the springtime chill that sprinkled the air, arms wrapped around herself to protect from unseen foes. When she woke, her neck ached and cramped, and the lively evening glow had given away to the velvet blackness of a Kaer Morhen night. She felt cold, and shivered slightly as she looked around. Then, her heart clenched impossibly in her chest as she realized she had slept through when she had promised to meet Geralt in the stables. Frustrated and groggy, she slammed her head back into the stone wall, cursing under her breath. Her time with the Witchers had done wonders for her curse vocabulary. A sick feeling settled at the bottom of Ciri’s stomach, and her heart continued to squeeze painfully in her chest. To her eternal shame, as she stared out the broken window frame into the Morhen Valley, a small tear traced down her cheek, which was gritty with sweat from her sleep.

It didn’t look too late in the night, Ciri noted hopefully as she got a closer look at the sky outside of the window. And the Witchers often stayed up late, talking and sharing stories from the year on the Path. Odds were, Geralt was still awake. Perhaps, having seen how engrossed he got caring for Roach and the other horses of the Keep, there was even a chance he was still busy and waiting for her in the stables. The quickest way was down the outside of the wall of the Keep, and Ciri was nothing if not hurried. She swung herself over the edge, and began to wend her way down, fingers and toes carefully exploring the rough surface and fitting their way into the small handholds and footholds she fount there. The wall was startlingly similar to the walls she had used to scale back at home in Cintra, and, for a moment, Ciri closed her eyes and imagined she was at home. The chill nighttime wind whipped in her hair and her thin linen shirt. Goosebumps emerged on her arms, and she shivered a bit, but the cold was something she was well acquainted with ignoring, having grown up in a coastal city.

Lost in reveries about the walls of Cintra and climbing them with her friends as a child, Ciri barely noticed that she was moving closer and closer to a broken portion of the wall. The wall she was currently scaling was crumbling under her fingers, but she barely noticed. Suddenly, a voice sounded below her, and she jerked in surprise and nearly lost her hold on the mossy rocks. Ciri gasped a bit, realizing she had made a stupid mistake. The wall was completely crumbled and destroyed below her, and the hand and footholds she had used to get out to this point were gone, destroyed under her grip. She was trapped; the only way to climb down was through the broken bits of rubble piled up like corpses after a battle on the valley floor. A treacherous course, one that Ciri was a good enough climber to recognize as being beyond her skill level. She swore again, loudly, and looked for the origin point of the voice. The last thing she wanted right now was an audience as she fell and broke an ankle. Especially an audience of Witchers. 

Below her, the sedgy ground that surrounded the Keep’s walls appeared barren in the dark of night. Ciri squinted while simultaneously trying not to lose her tenuous grip on the wall. In the distance, the pine trees swayed and birds flitted to and fro, but she could detect no other movement save the wind howling down the pass lodged between two mountain peaks that tower high above her. Perhaps the voice had been nothing but the wind. Relaxing a bit, Ciri tried to focus on the rock wall inches from her face, practically crumbling under her fingertips as she watched. Her heart hammered, and she couldn’t calm it. The only way to get down was to go through the unstable ruins. Ciri steeled herself for the journey, and hoped she wouldn’t break bones in any places that would be immediately obvious to Geralt. That was, if he was still waiting for her at the stables at all. The scent of morning was on the air.

Just as she was about to take the first step down the treacherous, the voice sounded again, distant and thready from the gale, which was quickly gaining strength. But there was no mistaking the shout as being Ciri’s name. She nearly lost her grip again, and craned her neck wildly over her shoulder to see who was calling. Bits of stray hair flew into her mouth and eyes, and she spat and cursed. Distantly, she could detect some movement coming from the far West portion of the wall, by where the horses were turned out to graze on the finer days. Someone scaling the wall with impressive speed, hurrying towards her with an urgency that frightened Ciri a bit.

“Fucking hell, Ciri, stay where you are!”

Ciri’s heart dropped down into her boots, which were scrambling for purchase on the rapidly crumbling stone underneath her. That was Geralt’s voice. He must have been turning the horses out and caught sight of her on the wall. Of all the inhabitants of the Keep Ciri could have chanced upon in such a position, he was the last one she wanted to see. She already felt like he thought she was a foolish little girl, incapable of using her instincts or following instructions. Angry, she rested her head on the mossy surface of the wall, trying to adjust her grip to stay in place. She was running out of handholds.

It took less than half the time it had taken Ciri to get from the window down to her current location for Geralt to scale the wall from the far West entrance. If she hadn’t been so embarrassed and frightened, Ciri would have been impressed. The wind whipped harshly against the stoney walls, but Geralt hardly seemed to feel it. Not for the first time, Ciri felt a sense of longing. She wished so much to be like him, to be someone he understood, and more importantly, someone who could keep up with him. A human daughter would never be enough for him, she feared. 

When he got close enough that Ciri could make out his face, it only confirmed her worst suspicions. His dark brows were drawn together, and his eyes were darkened and angry. Part of her felt like simply letting go, broken bones be damned. It was better than dealing with the fact that she had disappointed him.

“Fuck, Ciri. What the hell were you thinking, climbing towards this part of the wall? Someone who’d never climbed so much as a tree could tell that this is unsafe. Here, take my hand and I’ll pull you over the worst of it.”

Shamefacedly, Ciri took the outstretched hand, noting with increasing guilt that it was bloodied, probably cut because Geralt had been in too much of a hurry to get to her to choose his handholds carefully. Barely sparing her a look, he swung her down and around the handholds she had broken on the climb out. Ciri clung on as hard as she could, feeling her grip slipping on Geralt’s bloodied palm. Halfway through, he jerked her grip up onto his wrist with a grunt. A few seconds later, she smacked into the wall next to him, exhaling as the blunt surface forced all the air out of her lungs. Geralt retained his grip on her hand until she had found her footing, though her hands were shaking from exhaustion as she clung to the windswept wall.

“Follow me down. We’ll discuss this when we’re somewhere safer. It would be exceptionally stupid to stay out here longer than we have to, in this wind.”

With a pointed look that made Ciri cringe, Geralt began picking his way carefully down the wall. The rocks were less crumbly here, and the two of them had no difficulty descending, barring the few times the wind almost blew Ciri off the face. She tried to follow Geralt’s path exactly, which was not difficult; he left bloodied handprints on the wall behind him. Ciri tried unsuccessfully to swallow her guilt.

Geralt climbed all the way to the bottom and stepped easily off, swinging his arms to return circulation and grimacing as he tested the grip on his bloodied hands a bit. Once he was free of the wall, Ciri simply let go and dropped the last few metres, landing in a trembling heap at the base of the wall. There was a soft crunching noise when she landed as several wildflowers met an untimely end. Geralt scowled down at her reproachfully.

“That little display tells me all I need to know about how you managed to get yourself into such a situation in the first place. Life is full of enough risks without you creating your own.”

Ciri pushed herself up on her trembling arms, stomach heaving and hair twisting in sweaty strands around her flushed cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” she panted, not looking him in the eye, “My mind was somewhere else. I thought it would be the fastest way to get down, when I realized I missed meeting you in the stables. I fell asleep in one of the tower rooms.”

“I thought as much. You seemed tired at dinner.”

Geralt was also looking away now, flicking dried blood from his hands and spitting on them to stem the bleeding. Ciri was relieved to see that the blood had made it look far worse than it was; they were badly scraped at worst, and would likely be healed by nightfall. She picked herself up off the moss and stared back up at the wall.

“I can help you with the horses now, if there’s anything left to do. I shouldn’t have let myself fall asleep. It was irresponsible. I’m sorry.”

Ciri knew she was apologizing for far more than letting herself sleep. Geralt stopped examining his hands for a moment, and his jaw muscles worked like he was considering saying something. Then he shook his head distractedly and swallowed. Whatever he had been about to say, it was lost.

“Come on, the stables need cleaning now I’ve turned the horses out. And then you can go fetch some fresh hay from the loft.”

He turned away without so much as a backwards glance. After months of doggedly following him from Sodden all the way to Kaer Morhen, he had no reason to suspect Ciri would stop now. And nor would she. Jogging to catch up, she nodded concernedly at Geralt’s still bleeding hands.

“If you get shit on those they’ll get infected.”

“I’ll wear riding gloves.”

Ciri fell back into step behind him, trying to suppress her frustration. It was likely no one had ever offered Geralt help besides his brothers. And he had no reason to trust that Ciri would do a good job. After all their months of travelling together, he still barely knew her.

The wind calmed its tormented wailing through the valley as they traversed the base of the wall. As the sun began to let long tendrils of shadowed light flow through the valley, birds began their chirping again, bugs their humming. The air smelled of wildflowers, and the heat of spring mornings. Ciri breathed it in. Living in Cintra, the only smells she had associated with spring was the scent of decaying fish and freshly thawed shit. The peace of the high mountain air was all but unknown, and she wondered if there was more to the decision to place Kaer Morhen in such a beautiful place than practicality. 

“It’s beautiful here in the spring,” she tried, wondering if Geralt would take her lead.

“Is it?”

“Yes. The birds sing, and the air smells of flowers. And the whole forest feels alive, full of movement. You can tell that the creatures that live there feel safe and undisturbed. I’ve never seen that before. Living in a city, no creature feels safe.”

Geralt stopped for a moment, so suddenly that Ciri almost smacked into his back. She heard him sniffing the air, testing its scent against her description.

“That’s a good thing. There’ll be better hunting in the fall.”

Resisting the urge to smack her forehead with the palm of her hand, Ciri fell back into step as they continued. Whatever beauty might or might not have been noted by the Witchers who had built this place, it seemed to be all but lost on Geralt. They fell back into silence as they approached the stables, and Ciri watched with fascination as the horses perked up the moment they caught Geralt’s scent, trotting in a group towards the fence to greet him. He moved forwards, reaching out a hand to stroke Roach’s delicate, velvety nose. Her nostrils flared a bit, and Geralt stopped his stroking and leaned over, gently breathing onto her nostrils. She snorted a bit, and bumped her head against his forehead, leaving a trail of green grass up his pale face, which he wiped away with what could only be described as an amused grimace.

Ciri left them for a moment longer, feeling as though she was intruding on something very private, very much not meant for her. When Geralt turned away and wiped horse slobber off his shoulder, she plucked up her courage. 

“Why do you do that, with her nose?”

“Do what?”

“You breathe on her nostrils, when you greet her. Every time you left her in a stable all the way from Sodden, you would do that before you saddled her the following morning. What does it do?”

Geralt looked surprised, as though he hadn’t expected Ciri to be paying attention to his small habits.

“It’s a way of asking permission,” he scratched at the back of his neck uncomfortably, clearly unused to putting such things into words, “So she recognizes my scent and who I am before I ride her or spend time with her. Horses are prey animals, and they have bad eyesight. Scent is the way they perceive the world. To most horses, even the ones who know me, I move and act like a predator. So letting her recognize my scent and her letting me recognize hers in return shows that she trusts me, and she gives me permission to be close to her.”

Ciri had never heard Geralt talk so much in one sitting, except perhaps when he was telling stories in the library in the evening, which was a rare occurrence. She was unsure of what to say, and ended up twisting her hands awkwardly and staring at her feet for a long moment.

“That’s…thoughtful,” she finally settled on, “Many of the knights in Cintra were always so harsh with their horses. They treated them like they were disposable, like they were meat. And they always struggled to get them to obey commands, which was troublesome in battle. Perhaps it was because they didn’t trust one another?”

Geralt nodded, appraising her a bit. Then he turned and tossed her a shovel, which she caught deftly, narrowly missing being impaled by its sharp end.

“These stables won’t clean themselves, and I would like to eat breakfast before all the bread is gone. Eskel will be more than happy to eat our portions if we don’t arrive on time.”

Ciri took her shovel and entered the stable, starting with the stall closest to her. Geralt began cleaning the one opposite to her, efficiently clearing all the straw and wood shavings into a neat pile. Ciri tried to follow his lead; she was fairly new to mucking out her own stables, and she had yet to develop a proper technique. 

“You said you wanted to talk to me about something?”

Geralt paused from his cleaning and wiped a stray strand of curly silver hair off his sweaty face. Ciri noticed he was not wearing riding gloves to cover his lacerated hands, but she wasn’t about to burn the bridge she had just managed to build with him. She watched him shift a bit, wipe his still bloodied hands on his pants, where they left dark stains on the brown material. He dressed more softly at Kaer Morhen, Ciri had noticed. Less like he was about to leap up and drive his sword into something and more like he was trying to stay comfortable. It made Ciri feel less on edge.

“Yes…normally in the spring, we send a group out to hunt for a week or so, to bring back meat which we can dry and store to use through summer and fall. This year would be mine and Eskel’s turn to go, but I thought it might be beneficial if you came along, to learn to hunt properly. If you’re going to train to be a Witcher, you’ll need to be able to take down more than a rabbit.”

Ciri was taken aback. Of all the directions she had expected this conversation to go in, Geralt asking her to accompany him on a hunting trip was not one of them. The man was viciously introverted; the journey from Sodden to the Keep seemed to have taxed his mental energy almost to the brink. Although, Ciri supposed, he had still been recovering from a wound at the time. 

She realized she had probably been gaping when Geralt turned back to his work with a grunt, perhaps seeing her astonished silence as a refusal.

“I would like that,” Ciri said tentatively, feeling rather overjoyed at the opportunity to perhaps find something to share with Geralt, “Thank you…for offering. I know you would probably rather go alone.”

Once again, Geralt’s jaw muscles worked for a moment as he leaned on his shovel, and he looked as though he was about to say something. Then he turned back to his work, and Ciri turned back to hers, feeling hopeful for the first time in weeks that perhaps they were making progress.

\----

After they finished cleaning the stables in comfortable silence, they entered the Keep walking abreast to go find some breakfast. Ciri felt a bit taller than normal, knowing that Geralt actually, at some level, wanted to teach her, wanted to get to know her better. It had been a while since she had felt like anything other than prey. Even safe in the Keep, it was hard to shake the feeling. She kept feeling like, at any second, the man with the winged helmet would drop from the sky and take her. The thought made her shudder.

Instead of turning towards the kitchens, Geralt took the turn that led back to his rooms. Engrossed in her thoughts, Ciri almost turned to follow him before stopping short, unsure.

“Where are you going? Didn’t you say Eskel would take our food if we didn’t show up for breakfast?”

Geralt held up his bloodied hands by way of an answer, and turned to continue down towards his room. Ciri jogged to catch up, trying to resist catching his elbow. She knew he would not appreciate such a gesture, as harmless as it was.

“I can help you with that, you know. My grandmother was insistent I be good both at killing men and bandaging them up. She said they were too stupid to do the second part themselves.”

“I’m fine. I’ll meet you in the kitchens; we have supplies to prepare if we want to leave tonight.”

Ciri opened her mouth, but snapped it shut when he shot her a warning glare. From their time together on the road, she knew he struggled deeply with having his wounds touched. He had barely been healed when they had begun their journey, though he had not let on. Ciri had stumbled across him trembling in pain as he redid the sutures in his thigh one night by a small creek, dyed red with his blood. When she had offered to help, he had simply placed a hand on her shoulder and limped with her back to the fire, too exhausted to deny her but unable to accept her help. Just like her, the road had not been kind to him. Ciri knew all it took was one person with ill intent to break down a lifetime of trust. And Geralt didn’t strike Ciri as someone who had ever trusted anyone beyond his brothers at the Keep.

She watched his receding back and tried to swallow her disappointment. Perhaps once they left the Keep and were travelling, she could show him she was deserving of his trust. But, she supposed that began with him being able to trust her to gather and pack their supplies for the road. Ciri turned and headed back towards the kitchen, where she devoured a bowl of porridge while simultaneously piling jerky, hardtack, and some bread and cheese into their respective waterproof bags. With any luck, they would catch some rabbits and other small game now that springtime was bringing animals out of hibernation. But venturing into the wilderness without the necessary supplies would have been foolish, and Ciri knew Geralt was not one to tolerate foolishness.

The kitchens began to grow hot as the sun rose up from behind the mountains. It rose late here due to the height of the peaks; and Ciri realized with a start that if the kitchen was starting to heat up it was probably close to noon. Geralt still hadn’t reappeared, and she suspected he had gone off to complete some tasks around the Keep without bothering to find breakfast. Shaking her head at his disregard for his body’s needs (a trait she had witnessed and grown to hate on the road from Sodden), Ciri packed away the supplies she had gathered, and washed the bowls and pots left over from breakfast. 

Eskel appeared when she was nearly done the dishes; taking up a rag and beginning the process of drying next to her. She offered him a small smile, which he returned. It pulled the scars on his face; most of his expressions were stunted because of his lost range of motion. Ciri found it a bit endearing. She noticed that what he couldn’t convey with his face he managed to get across with his eyes. They were warm and welcoming, less steely than Geralt’s, although just as piercing. 

“Did he ask you?”

Ciri didn’t bother asking how Eskel knew about what Geralt had planned. She knew very little about the two beyond that they had completed their first round of mutations together. However, they shared more than Geralt was willing or able to share with anyone else.

“Yes. I’m trying to prepare supplies. He likes being prepared.”

Eskel snorted back a bit of a laugh as he dried out a clay bowl.

“Just noticing it now, are you? He prepares for things that the rest of us can’t even dream up. It’s probably why he’s survived so long. Likely why he survived long enough to find you.”

“I want…to be helpful.”

“I know,” Eskel’s eyes were soft, “I know it can feel like he doesn’t care for you, but he does. He just doesn’t understand how to show it. Asking you to come along with him, that’s one of the surest signs I can think of that he cares for you and values you. With time, he’ll learn to trust you, and you him. The world hasn’t been kind to either of you. Trust takes time to rebuild, especially when in the past involving himself has only hurt him.”

Ciri bit back the comment she wanted to make, about how she wished Geralt could summon the words and the courage to tell her this himself. It made her angry that all reassurances about their relationship came by way of Eskel. Not only did it put him in a difficult position, but it frustrated Ciri about Geralt’s inability to communicate. Although, having spent weeks on the road with him, she knew he was more than happy not to communicate at all. She hoped this trip would be different. 

“We’ve had this conversation so many times, Eskel. It will be what it is.”

There was no chance that Eskel believed her nonchalant act, Ciri thought. The man was far too perceptive. But he didn’t question her further, and she turned back to her dishes, and he to his drying. When they were finished, Ciri followed the Witcher back to the library, where they continued their search into her family’s history as the sun waned in the West.

“You’ll set out anything interesting you find while I’m gone?”

“Of course. I have a few ideas of places where I could look to do some more extensive research, if you’d like. I can bring the books I think are relevant up to your room, so you can read them when you get back.”

Outside, a bird chittered loudly. Ciri recognized the sound of a robin and smiled softly. It comforted her that the sounds she had heard her entire life in Cintra were still present, reminding her of her home. As a little girl, she had often hurled heavy objects at the robins singing outside her bedroom window at first light.

“Thank you. Although I’m not sure we’ll find anything else. It feels like we’ve been through every book in this library.”

“Don’t get discouraged quite yet. There are other places we can look. I know you want answers.”

Ciri winced and jammed her index finger into her mouth as blood welled up on it from a paper cut. Eskel tossed her a spare piece of parchment to staunch the bleeding, and watched, fascinated, as she tried to get it to clot.

“I forget you’e human so often,” he said, almost to himself, “I keep expecting you to stop bleeding as quickly as we do, to be able to jump and fight as well as we can. It’s strange to have someone who isn’t a Witcher living in the Keep.”

Ciri fought back the urge to glare at him, knowing he hadn’t meant to make her feel like an outsider. Everywhere she went these days, she wasn’t quite right. Like a puzzle piece placed in the wrong box; too chaotic to be human, but not enough to be a Witcher. It made her head ache.

“Well, if my blood starts clotting faster, you’ll be the first to know,” she said, somewhat waspishly. Eskel shot her a look and went back to his reading, settling back in a winged armchair. Ciri took her own stack of books over to the fire, where she dragged a bear skin over herself despite the heat and curled up, frustrated. Her eyes skimmed the pages but didn’t really take anything in; it was mostly dull anyways. An account of the marriage between some King and Princess of Cintra long before her time. She didn’t know what she was expected to uncover about her abilities amidst an inventory of how many hams were consumed at a wedding feast three hundred years ago.

At some point, Eskel stood and left. Ciri was nodding off, and she felt someone take the book from her limp hands and tuck the skin closer around her shoulders. Snuggling up a bit, she curled her legs up to her chest, wincing when she felt bruises from her last fencing session with Vesemir. The fire crackled and popped in the background, each loud noise sounding especially grating on her tired ears. Someone stoked the fire and closed the windows to keep the spring heat from making the room stifling, but Ciri was too tired to see who it was. Eventually, her uneasy slumber drifted into a deeper sleep, plagued by dreams of the man with the feathered helmet, and a little girl with ashen hair and a dirty face. When the little girl turned, her hands were bloodied and filthy. With horror, Ciri realized she was digging a grave. And in that grave, face smooth and noble and unlined in a way she had never seen it in life, was Geralt.


	2. The Pass

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Geralt leave Kaer Morhen. Ciri has questions about the land. Geralt makes a mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone! My apologies that this chapter is late, I really have no excuse since it was ready almost a week ago. I just forgot to post it. But it's here now! I must admit, I loved writing this one! Just a note on biology, the Elder names discussed here are all the Latin names of the species; it just felt right to make them Elder here. Additionally, all medicinal plants discussed are plants used as medicines in my home country. That being said, I'm a history major, so if anyone who knows more about biology notices anything wrong, please correct me!
> 
> Once again, thank you to RoachIsJudgingYou for being the most incredible beta and writer (go check out their stuff, seriously). And thank you all for hanging out and leaving your kudos and comments! It means a lot to me, especially since a lot of effort has gone into writing this. Hope you're all doing well out there!

It was dark when Ciri started awake, gasping and panting. There was sweat drenching her hair and clothes, and she braced herself on the arms of the chair she was sitting in, taking a moment to regain her breath. It stuttered in and out of her lungs; she felt like she was breathing through a half-shuttered window. Trying to keep her coughing at bay, she gradually calmed her breathing, tracing a figure-eight pattern on her leg. It was a meditation aid Geralt had taught her for nightmares while they were travelling together, when she had awoken almost every night screaming in terror as she relived the massacre in Cintra. It had been an uncharacteristic moment of tenderness for the man. Ciri remembered curling up next to him and letting his steady breathing and slow heartbeat ease her back to sleep. She wondered at what point that had become an unacceptable amount of affection for him to show towards her.

When she had regained her wits enough to raise her sweaty head and look around, Ciri could see the final rays of sunset still streaking through the windowpanes of the library. The glass was running, and the light shining through created a watery pattern on the floor. It was rather beautiful, Ciri thought as she peeled her sweaty back off the chair and shook out the skins that had covered her. The book she had been reading was spine-up on the table next to her, left to mark her place. Next to it was a glass carved out of elk horn, filled with chamomile tea. She sipped at it, remembering to thank Eskel later. Chamomile was always calming after a nightmare, and it made her feel less uncomfortable and hot.

She perused the book absentmindedly as she sipped at the tea, not because she was interested in the wedding preparations of long-dead Cintrans, but because it took her mind off the man in her dreams. Off the little girl, so much like herself, burying Geralt in a grave somewhere in a high mountain pass, while the trees crackled and burned around her. The thought of it made her shudder. While she had never experienced prophetic dreams, Ciri did not know enough about the Chaotic manifestation in her family to know whether they were outside the realm of possibility for her. Shuddering, she slammed down the mug and flipped through a few more pages of the book before giving up and setting it down. The Keep was full of the aura of death. It thrummed around her with every step, louder in some places than in others. Countless boys had died here. Perhaps whatever lingered of their energies was simply invading her thoughts, showing her their final moments instead of something the future still held in reserve. Ciri tried to convince herself of this. Perhaps, tomorrow, she could ask Eskel if any other Witchers or sorceresses living in the Keep had experienced a similar phenomenon. The idea that it was anything other than a simple fluke was too much for Ciri to handle.

Standing and wincing a bit as her joints popped, Ciri wandered down to the kitchens for dinner. She would be back to fencing with Vesemir tomorrow, and she had learned her lesson about skipping meals before a session with him. He showed no mercy, even on her worst days.

Geralt and Eskel looked up when she entered the kitchen, and Ciri noted with surprise that they were the only people occupying the space. Normally, at sunset the place was teeming with the inhabitants of the Keep. Meals were one of the rare times when all the Witchers gathered together.

“Where’s everyone gone?” She asked, more curious than concerned. Most of the daily lives of these men were still a mystery to her.

“In the caves below the Keep. It’s been seventy years to the day since Lambert went through the Trial of the Grasses. Vesemir went with him.”

“What’re they doing there?” The question slipped past Ciri’s lips before she could stop it, and she immediately regretted it. The caverns below the Keep were strictly off limits to her, as were all discussions of what they housed. She was torn between slapping herself and simply turning tail and fleeing before Geralt could reprimand her. But he didn’t. In fact, he didn’t even look angry.

“Remembering,” he said simply, “There were many who didn’t survive the Trials. The ones who did don’t forget it.”

Ciri slipped onto the bench next to Geralt, and shot a questioning look at Eskel. Seeming to understand what she was asking, he nodded encouragingly. Clearly, she had caught Geralt in a rare moment where he was willing to talk.

“Do you remember?” She ventured.

Geralt turned his head sharply and appraised her for a moment. His eyes flickered to Eskel and the two of them shared a few pointed glances that left Ciri feeling as though a whole conversation had occurred in the space of a few seconds.

“Yes.” He said, eyebrows creased. He didn’t elaborate.

“Geralt, she’s training to be one of us. She may not have to go through the Trials, but she deserves to know. It’s her history as much as ours now.”

Geralt shifted to cradle his head in his hand, which Ciri noticed was wrapped neatly in a layer of bandages. His eyebrows creased even further, the way she had often seen with her grandmother when she was developing a headache after a long day.

“I barely remember, Eskel. I couldn’t keep track of time, and my eyes ached and I couldn’t see. When they were finally finished the first round I couldn’t move or speak, and then they told me I’d handled it so well they wanted to do more. I would never wish that pain on anyone. And that’s all she needs to know, because she will never experience it. Not while I’m living.”

Geralt looked almost flushed by the time he was done, and Ciri immediately felt badly for asking. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt,” she placed a small hand on his arm, and to her surprise he didn’t immediately pull away, “That’s horrific. I don’t know what kind of person would do that to a child.”

“The same type of person that would rip away her homeland and hunt her through the bush like a dog.”

Ciri supposed that he was right. Through his many years of travel, Geralt had probably had ample opportunity to study human nature, with all its flaws and imperfections. It was still painful to think that those were the people he had grown up around, though. People who saw him as an object, a successful experiment, without really understanding what he had gone through so that they could say they had created something new, something better. At least Ciri had not had to grow up alongside her abusers.

The three of them stayed there for a while, silent. Even though they were not with Lambert, Ciri felt like they were, in a way, holding vigil with him. Not just for his brothers, who fell during the Trials or shortly thereafter in the sacking of the Keep, but also for Lambert himself. The way Geralt described it, even in his minimal way, left Ciri with a sense of loss. As though, by going through the Trials, you experienced your own death. Those who survived, like Geralt and Eskel, had passed through the eye of the needle and come out the other side. But, in passing through, they had paid a hefty price. It was a wonder to Ciri that more Witchers didn’t look like Geralt, weary and aged though he appeared no more than thirty years old. She supposed his shock of silvery hair didn’t do much to help the image, although it was yet another reminder of who he was no longer. 

Finally, Geralt shifted, and placed a hand on Ciri’s shoulder.

“We should go down to the stables and get ready to leave tomorrow. I want to be gone by dawn, and I saw you packed some supplies. I can show you how to pack them onto your horse, if you’d like.”

Still feeling slightly discomfited by what she had learned about Geralt’s past, Ciri rose in a bit of a daze and followed him outside into the chill evening. There were insects buzzing in the grass, but the movement outside was far more subdued compared to Ciri’s fateful climb earlier on in the day. The wind that had been howling down the valley had lessened to a breeze.

“Have you ever hunted before?” Geralt asked her suddenly. Ciri almost laughed out loud, before she realized that Geralt’s knowledge of how royals spent their time was probably nonexistent.

“When my grandmother wasn’t hunting people who disobeyed her, she set her sights on elk and deer instead. I used to love to go along with her and my grandfather. Sometimes we would even sail out on the Skelligan seas and hunt fish and whales, although I was never very good at that.”

Geralt seemed surprised, but he nodded approvingly.

“You hunt with a bow, then?”

“Usually a crossbow. Although I can shoot with a recurve bow as well. Not as well from horseback.”

“After we’ve finished packing these things, we can go back to the Keep and see if we can find you a good crossbow. Projectile weapons aren’t usually a Witcher’s choice, we spend too much time in close range. But I can think of a few weapons that might suit you.”

Ciri smiled up at him tentatively, hoping this was another bridge that she could create. Having come to the castle knowing very little about swordplay, Geralt had left her training entirely to Vesemir, which made sense since he was a fencing master. However, Ciri had felt disappointed that she had not been able to train with Geralt yet. Perhaps it would be easier if they found themselves on a more level playing field.

Geralt showed Ciri how to pack her saddlebags more with gestures than with words. As she watched him and mirrored his motions, designing a complicated lattice of bags and boxes that fit together into a cohesive path, she realized that this was probably how he had been taught, with motions more than words. Ciri had experienced this at the hands of Vesemir, who had simply placed a sword in her hands and told her to try not to get herself hurt. It was reassuring that Geralt wanted to teach her, to show her how he had learned his meticulous way of doing things. She paid sharp attention, knowing Geralt valued care and attention to detail. It would do her well to show she appreciated and listened to what he had to show her.

They were nearly finished packing and setting aside supplies for the following morning when Lambert wandered out, torch in hand, probably on his way to take his own mount out for a ride before it got too late. He nodded respectfully at Geralt, and shot Ciri a look. She noticed his face was reddened and ruddy, and his eyes were a bit glassy, and shot a look at Geralt, remembering what they had been discussing earlier. He nodded her away.

“Going out for a ride?” Ciri questioned, falling into step alongside him.

“Yes.”

Sensing Lambert wanted to be alone, Ciri abandoned all intentions she might have had of asking to join him. Besides, as much as she wanted to go for a ride to clear her head before tomorrow, it would be foolish to take her horse out before the long journey they faced. As she turned to go, Lambert shot her a look that Ciri could only describe as being concerned, which struck her as odd. Lambert had never expressed concern for anyone other than himself in the whole time Ciri had known him. Surely she had been mistaken. Lambert’s facial expressions were limited to various forms of anger and contempt.

“Be careful while you’re gone. The wilds are a dangerous place, full of dangerous ideas.” He grunted out the words, so quiet she thought she had imagined them.

“I’m not planning on going and falling off into the scree, as much as it might amuse you to think of it. Sorry to disappoint.”

“With your reflexes, it wouldn’t take a lot of planning or hard work.” The reply was acid, and in a familiar tone of voice. Ciri relaxed. Clearly, she had mistaken Lambert’s intentions. The man could never pass up an opportunity to mock her. Turning away, she re-entered the stall where Geralt was grooming Roach gently, flicking dust off her rump and running his other hand along behind the soft goat’s hair brush. Ciri leaned back against the stall and popped a piece of straw between her teeth, fiddling with it absently while reflecting on how mortified her grandmother would have been to see her, chewing straw in the muck like a common farmer. She allowed herself a small chuckle at the thought.

Geralt started abruptly at the noise and wheeled about, as though he had forgotten she was there.

“Are you alright?” He asked, brows creasing in confusion when he saw her mirth-filled face.

“Just thinking of my grandmother. And what she would say if she could see me now.”

Geralt turned back to his brushing, the expression on his face betraying that he was still feeling confused. Ciri had noticed his face was far more open since they had arrived at Kaer Morhen. On the road, he rarely, if ever, showed his feelings on his face. But here, he was easier to read. In a way, Ciri found it helpful. Geralt was difficult to read even when he was open like this. She sank to the floor of the stable and breathed in the sweet, horsey smell, watching Geralt’s silver hair flash in the dim light as he ran his hand and brush over Roach’s coat, even though it was gleaming lustrously already. His eyes were softer than she had seen them in days, in the low light of the evening. Content to watch him and fiddle her straw in her mouth, Ciri leaned her head back against the boarded walls and waited for him to finish up.

\----

Ciri drifted for a while, mesmerized by the flicking of Roach’s chestnut tail and the gentle sound of the brush passing over her coat. She tried to meditate for a while, following the instructions given to her by Geralt and Eskel, trying to let go of her thoughts and remember her purpose. She met with little success; it was difficult to remember one’s purpose when one had yet to discover it. She often found herself wishing to be a Witcher when she tried her hand at meditating. Witchers had such a clear sense of purpose, of identity. Although she had come to realize recently that they gained that at the loss of a great deal of other beautiful and valuable things.

When Ciri looked up, abandoning her attempts at quieting her thoughts, Geralt was running his hands gently down Roach’s legs, feeling for lumps. When he reached the bottom, he squeezed her pastern and she lifted her leg calmly. He then ran his fingers down across the bottom of her hooves, flicking away clumped dirt and stray rocks. It was possibly the most gentle interaction Ciri had ever seen Geralt have, and she was entranced. After a moment, she realized he was talking softly, telling Roach what he was doing and why. His voice was low and almost hypnotic. Unwilling to break the spell, Ciri leaned back and continued to let herself drift, listening to the calming rhythm of Geralt’s voice. 

Eventually, when he was done meticulously checking over Roach’s hooves, Geralt stood at his horse’s side. He seemed indecisive, and simply stayed there for a moment, tapping his fingers gently on her neck and wobbling his left ankle inside his boot. Ciri watched from where her head was rested on her knees, curious. She had never noticed this particular physical tell about Geralt before, and wondered what it meant. After a moment, he shifted his weight back onto both legs and approached her, silent as a cat, feet barely shifting the straw underneath them. He placed a hand on her shoulder and shook it gently.

“Ciri, if you want to go look at crossbows before midnight, you need to wake up.” The voice with which Geralt announced this was gruff, very different from the gentle way he shook her shoulder, like he didn’t want to frighten her.

“I’m not sleeping.”

“I know.”

Ciri often forgot that Geralt could tell whether she was awake or asleep by listening to her pulse and breathing. There had been a few times on the road, after a particularly violent nightmare, when she had tried unsuccessfully to fool him. She pulled herself to her feet and stretched out sore her legs, which were cramped from being drawn up against her body for so long.

“I’ve never been to the armoury before,” she tried, not sure if Geralt would be interested in talking to her so late in the evening, “I thought Witchers carried all their weapons with them.”

“Not every Witcher carries all his weapons with him to the grave.”

Ciri clamped her mouth shut. Geralt was extremely effective at getting her to shut up using as few words as possible. She knew many Witchers had died since the coup, but the longer she stayed in the Keep, the more she learned how attached and close knit they had all been. As ashamed as she was to admit it, Ciri knew at one time she had believed that Witchers were soulless and emotionless. But statements like this from Geralt, the fact that weapons of fallen brothers were kept and boys who had perished in the Trials were memorialized showed that the rumours couldn’t be further from the truth. Ciri wondered why Witchers allowed such stories to take root. Perhaps it was easier to simply pretend they didn’t feel. Perhaps it made it easier to ignore the pain that they so often encountered in their daily lives. Ciri certainly had experience with that in the months that had followed the fall of Cintra, although she had not nearly perfected the art of pretending not to feel.

When they entered the Keep, Geralt turned off the main hall and unlocked a small door sunken back in the wall. When he pulled it open on creaking hinges, Ciri saw a set of stairs that led off into an abyssal darkness. Geralt proceeded to step forwards as if he intended to descend into the pitch black, before backtracking and snatching an unlit torch from the wall and lighting it with Igni. 

“Come on, then.”

Ciri faltered for a moment. One of the first rules that had been impressed on her upon her arrival at the Keep was that she was not, under any circumstances, to descend into the basement levels of the castle. Geralt had actually been the one who had told her this, as they had been picking their way through the scree that led to the Morhen Valley. But Geralt was not someone who liked being kept waiting. Ciri jogged down the stairs behind him, trying to keep pace with him on the uneven, rough hewn steps. Clearly, this place had not been part of the original Keep, but instead carved by hand much earlier on. It felt ancient, and the air was damp and clung to Ciri’s nostrils. A moist scent filled the air.

When they finally reached flat ground again, Ciri felt as though they had been descending for an eternity, although in reality it could not have been more than five minutes. Geralt used the torch to light a large dish filled with coals at the bottom of the stairs, which sprung to life with an alarming pop, and then placed the torch in a bracket in the wall. Ciri gasped.

The room they were standing in was enormous. That was the best word Ciri could find to describe it, although even that didn’t really do it justice. The air was damp and heavy, and the room disappeared from eyesight into a faint, misty outline. Columns towered up from the floor, each as wide around as Roach, and so tall that Ciri had to squint in the dark to see where they splayed out again against the ceiling. They were covered with ornate designs, stone roses and vines that crawled up the columns, barely distinguishable from the real thing in the dark, heavily shadowed light. A little ways off, a small fountain stood, with a single stone rose growing out of the top of it. Its bowl was delicately carved, and was reminiscent of a seashell Ciri had once found while wandering the beaches in Skellige.

“What is this place? Witchers wouldn’t build a room like this, would they?”

Geralt had been walking away from her with the catlike gait that Ciri had begun to associate with all the Witchers in the Keep, and that she had not seen replicated anywhere else, even amongst the greatest warriors in Cintra.

“It’s a relic from the castle that stood here before Kaer Morhen was built. A keep built by the elves, before the convergence of the spheres. The foundation that Kaer Morhen is built on is the same that was built by the elves, and all the lower structures remained intact, although they aren’t in use beyond storage and a few abandoned laboratories.”

Ciri shuddered at the thought of laboratories. From what she had heard about the basements from Eskel, she had managed to deduce that this was where the Trials were carried out. She imagined the vast, misty cavern ringing with the screams of dying boys, and her heart clenched up a bit in her chest. She kept close behind Geralt as he wended his way between the vast columns and found his way to a door that was about in line with the small fountain. When Ciri gazed back in the direction of the fountain, she could barely make it out through the heavy, misty air. 

Geralt opened this door with the same key, and it creaked open agedly, like an old man waking up from a nap. There were cobwebs on the door, and when they slipped inside Geralt lit another torch with Igni, revealing a room stacked floor to ceiling with crossbows, recurve bows, and swords of various sizes, makes and descriptions. They were all impeccably clean; whatever cobwebs had decorated the door outside, there were none here. Someone clearly came down here regularly to make sure all the weapons were kept in working order. Although, with the dwindling number of Witchers, it seemed to Ciri once again to be more of a memorialization than a practical task.

“Take what you like. These weapons no longer have owners.”

Ciri noticed that Geralt looked uncomfortable down here. His eyes were cast downwards, like he didn’t want to encounter any of the weapons hanging on the walls. Eskel had once described a Witcher’s weapon as an extension of his soul (this after Lambert had nearly lopped off Ciri’s hand when she had touched one of his swords). While Ciri saw swords and bows with practical use, Geralt probably saw the remains of long-dead brothers and friends. She shuddered a bit. The air had an icy chill and heavy with more than just mist.

Ciri moved quickly towards the crossbows and picked up the first one that caught her eye, eager to get out of this place. It was solidly made; the foregrip and limb were lined with bone, and although it was not strung Ciri could see that it would flex well. Feeling it was unnecessary to spend more time inspecting crossbows when she had found a perfectly suitable weapon, she turned back to Geralt. He was fingering a tiny knife, flipping through his fingers idly. Ciri had once seen a young pickpocket in the marketplace in Cintra do something similar with a coin. She had never seen the knife before, though.

“That yours?” She asked, slinging the crossbow over her shoulder. Geralt nodded reluctantly.

“It was once.”

Ciri had learnt a long time ago that it was best not to ask Geralt to elaborate on such statements. If he wanted to tell her more, he would. He usually didn’t, though. It was a frustrating trait; Ciri found it added to his unapproachable demeanour.

After a few more moments of flipping the knife, Geralt ran his finger up and down the blade, which was dull and made a soft rasping noise against his calloused fingers. Then he set it back down gently on top of a cabinet, which Ciri saw was full of other knives of various shapes and sizes. They were all dull looking, some ancient and clearly untouched for centuries. 

“Aren’t you going to get a bow as well?” Ciri had never seen Geralt fight with a bow, and she hadn’t seen him carry one either. But he shook his head.

“I have my own. I would rather not take from down here unless I had no other option. These weapons all had owners. It’s dishonest to take another man’s weapon when you have a perfectly serviceable one of your own.”

Ciri avoided mentioning that all the men who had weapons down here would probably not take offence, seeing as how they were all dead. She shrugged it off and continued towards the exit of the armoury, turning to wait a moment when she saw Geralt wasn’t following her. He was running his hands over various swords on the walls, mouthing words. Awkwardly, Ciri watched him. When he got closer, she saw he was mouthing what looked like words of thanks. Another shiver worked its way down her spine. Living in the Keep, she often felt as though she was surrounded by the memory of dead men and boys. And every other inhabitant was well aware of it too. The Witchers approached the finality of life with a reverence Ciri had rarely experienced elsewhere. They were frank and open about death, and about remembering their dead. In a way, Ciri found it more honest than the skirting and avoidance she had experienced in Cintra. There, death was not discussed unless there was no other option, and then never in any detail. Once someone had died, their grave was never visited, and they were never discussed. People faded from memory faster than the first snowmelt of spring.

When Geralt had meandered his way back to the door, he shut it softly, twitching a bit when the hinges creaked. The normally soft sound echoed deeply in the cavernous room. He rested his hand on the door for a moment, then turned around and blinked a bit, as though he was clearing his head.

“It’s late,” he grunted, “You should go get some rest. I want to leave before first light tomorrow, and we have a long ride ahead of us.”

Geralt extinguished the large pot of fire at the bottom of the stairs with a blast of Aard, which had the same effect on it as a puff of breath on a candle. The whole place winked into darkness, save the small pocket of light left by the torch hanging on the wall. 

“You take the torch. I can go up without it, and I don’t want you tripping and breaking an ankle.”

Unsure of whether to be touched or insulted, Ciri took the torch and followed Geralt’s quick footsteps back up the stairs. Right before the huge cavern disappeared from view, she turned and took it in one last time. She doubted she would ever come down here again. For a brief moment, there was the crackling smell of ozone on her tongue and nose, and she had the distinct feeling that she was being watched. Geralt started as well, then grabbed her shoulder forcefully and turned her away.

“Don’t stall. You’ll regret it tomorrow.”

Unsure of whether to tell Geralt about the strange feeling, Ciri followed him up the rest of the stairs, feeling grateful for all the running and training Vesemir and Geralt forced her to do. It took nearly the whole staircase before she began to feel out of breath. As she panted, the electric taste slowly dissipated from her mouth. By the time they reached the top of the stairs, she had forgotten the incident entirely. Geralt locked the top door with a soft click, and then turned away.

“I’ll meet you at the stables at sunup tomorrow. Make sure to eat something before we leave; I don’t want to stop in the morning. The hunting gets better the further from the Keep we journey.”

Ciri knew he wasn’t expecting a response, so she jogged off towards her own quarters, stifling a yawn and hefting the crossbow a bit higher on her back. The thing was damnably heavy, for all its bone accoutrements. Though she supposed it could have been worse. Some of the crossbows she had hunted with in Cintra had been so large she could barely heft them onto her shoulder to shoot.

The upper chambers were dark and cool, and Ciri breathed in the night air as she ascended the steps. She preferred to leave the windows in her room open during the day, and she loved the feeling of returning to a room flush with fresh spring air. Sighing contentedly, she took a sip of water to wash the rest of a strange taste out of her mouth, undressed, and curled up underneath the sheets, full of hope for what tomorrow would bring.

\----

It was the robins singing outside her window that awoke Ciri the following morning. After a few days of having cold water dumped on her head because she had overslept, her internal clock woke her up at dawn. But it was rather a relief that she had woken earlier today; seeing as Geralt wanted to be on the road at the time when Ciri normally would have just been stretching herself luxuriously into wakefulness under her scratchy sheets.

This morning, however, she leapt out of bed, heart pounding a bit. While she knew that it was illogical to be nervous to go on a week-long hunting trip with a man she had spent several months with in the wild, she still had an odd feeling in the pit of her stomach. Something told her that this was the one chance she would get to truly make a connection with her father, and she didn’t want to do anything that would jeopardize that.

Stretching quickly and rubbing her arms and legs to get the blood flowing, Ciri splashed some cold water over her face, and opened her eyes, blinking away crystalline drops from her lashes. Her back popped angrily when she bent over to pick up a shirt, folded carefully away in a large oak chest. Slipping that and some dark pants on, Ciri proceeded to shove two more nearly identical outfits into a small sack, and then tied her fine hair up behind her head in a bun. She expected it to turn to whips and tangles by noon; her governesses had always marvelled at her hair’s fineness and beauty, but it was dreadfully impractical to keep out of her face. She was loath to cut it, though. It had not been cut since she had left Cintra.

Grimacing a bit as she shouldered the bag and the crossbow, as well as the sword buckled at her hip, Ciri jogged down the stairs, taking them three at a time. She could hear her grandmother reprimanding her, telling her she’d split her skull open. Perhaps at one time she would have, too. Now, it would have been difficult to get her to lose her footing. In the distance, through several doors and walls, Ciri could hear birds chirping as the valley began to awaken. Geralt was probably already waiting impatiently at the stables; she had never once awoken before him on their journey from Sodden to the Keep. Her heart sped up a bit as she skipped the last few stairs and landed on the floor, cushioning the fall with a roll at the bottom. Now she could hear Geralt and Vesemir reprimanding her as well, telling her to take less risks. It was interesting the way her grandmother’s voice was replaced more and more with theirs these days, though it didn’t bother her as much as she thought it should. Hearing the Lioness’s voice always made her feel close to tears.

Ciri had planned on running by the kitchen to snatch a slice of cheese from the counter, but as she was about to take the turn, she nearly smacked headlong into Eskel, who was walking quickly in the other direction.

“Ciri! I’m sure it wouldn’t trouble you to watch where you were going?” He sounded exasperated, but she knew there was no real anger behind his words. Dusting herself off from her quick dodge into the wall, she apologized.

“Here, I was about to bring this to you anyways,” Eskel held out an apple and a few slices of cheese, “Geralt is already down by the stables, worrying you’re not awake. You’d best go meet him before he comes back looking for you.”

Ciri winced a bit and doubled the pace of her headlong dash while simultaneously taking a large bite out of the apple. The corridors sped by, and she counted herself lucky that she didn’t run into any of the other inhabitants of the Keep. Lambert would have mocked her mercilessly had he found her sprinting through the hallways at such an ungodly hour, hunting trip or no. She slammed a shoulder into the door and muffled a groan as the joint popped a bit, and stumbled down the steep, grassy hill that led from the main keep to the stables. When she arrived, she dropped the things she was carrying in a messy heap and stood, hands braced on her knees, panting and staring intently at the moss that had suddenly come a lot closer to her face.

“Rough night?”

Gasping a bit and feeling her cheeks flush from embarrassment, Ciri looked up and found Geralt staring down at her, one dark eyebrow raised. It was hard to tell if he was amused or genuinely shocked to find her in such a state. She blew a stray hair out of her mouth and tried to recollect her dignity as best she could.

“Fucking robins. Kept me awake with their singing.”

“Don’t swear. And I seem to recall you singing the praises of the beauty of spring just yesterday.”

Had he been someone else, Ciri probably would have thumped Geralt upside the head. It was early, and her temper was already cut to a quick from her headlong dash through the Keep. As it was, she tried to gather her things with as much of a dignified air as possible, and swept off to the stables to load them onto her horse. Geralt waited outside until she was finished, idly sharing an apple with Roach. It was still dark in the valley, but the sun was beginning to send out her first tendrils of orange light by the time Ciri emerged, packed and prepared. Geralt mounted up next to her, and waited until they were riding abreast before he addressed her.

“We’ll ride South, through the mountains. By tonight we should cross the pass into the next range, where very few, if any, humans venture. The hunting there is usually plentiful, but the pass is dangerous and prone to avalanches, especially in springtime when the snow is still melting. I trust that you’ll be careful and not go riding wildly off.”

Ciri had heard of avalanches before, although the closest thing she had ever experienced to one was when she and several friends had rolled a large snowball down a hill close to the coast. She had no desire to encounter one any closer than that, and nodded sharply, feeling rather frustrated that Geralt felt he had to tell her this at all. She liked to think he could trust her to be sensible, after spending nigh on two months evading Nilfgaardian forces. 

“I’ll stay close to you. Are we planning on tracking any game today?”

Geralt shook his head.

“Best to get further into the next range. The people who live in Kaedwen rely heavily on the game that lives near here. Witchers are already mistrusted enough without us stealing food from the surrounding villages.”

With that, he urged Roach into a gentle trot, and Ciri followed behind on Aerra, a horse gifted to her by the Witchers upon her arrival, whose name meant wind. She was a quick, if rather unpredictable steed. Having never ridden her in the mountains before, Ciri approached this trip with more caution than she normally would have. Hopefully Aerra would be surefooted enough to get her through the high mountain passes without casualty.

\----

Several hours later, the sun was high enough that it beat straight down, no longer peeking through the high mountain peaks. Pine needles crushed gently under Roach and Aerra’s hooves as they trotted through a pine forest, still not far enough from the Keep to have ascended above the tree line. Ciri breathed in the warm air, gazing about, filled with awe. The land here was so different from the one she had grown up in, and she was rather enamoured by it. There were spiderwebs strung out, glittering between the trees like living lace, and dragonflies hummed to and fro, snatching mosquitoes from the air. Some distant part of her brain recalled that the large blue dragonflies were given the Elder name aeschna. Another useless factoid leftover from her days being tutored in various higher math and science disciplines. On the sides of the game path, little red mushrooms poked up among the carpet of pine needles, some still dripping with early morning dew. Patches of light and dark dappled the forest floor, and occasionally they would pass by an orchid with a pink bell and white petals, reaching skyward like a lady poised at the top of a high tower. 

Ciri wanted to point these things out to Geralt, but she wasn’t sure how he would react. After having spent years hunting, looking only towards his next contract, perhaps he no longer noticed the small things. He had probably travelled this path hundreds of times in his long life. Perhaps it simply no longer interested him to appreciate the beauty of the mountains, the smell of the crystal clear air.

“What kind of flower is that?” Ciri motioned at the small orchids, which were growing in larger clumps near a small stream that ran alongside the path, “I’ve never seen anything like them before.”

Geralt looked up and examined the flower she had motioned at. He scrunched up his brows, as though trying to recall something long forgotten.

“Ram’s head lady slipper,” he said, seeming to surprise himself as well as Ciri with that piece of knowledge, “The roots can be used as a sedative, or to keep muscles from spasming.”

Feeling like she had struck on something, Ciri pointed out several other plants. After a moment, Geralt had an answer for what every one of them was called, as well as their medicinal properties, if there were any. 

“Where did you learn all this?” Ciri asked, feeling rather excited; she was deeply interested in plants and their medicinal purposes after having watched many a man die in Cintra due to a lack of knowledge of medicinal plants, “Can you teach me how to recognize plants the way you do?”

“A young Witcher learns very early what plants in his hunting grounds can be used for healing. It does you well to know what can be gathered within arm’s reach when you can’t move any further.”

Ciri was frightened for a moment that perhaps she had pushed too far. Any mention of Geralt’s past or his training in Kaer Morhen usually ended whatever conversation they were engaged in. But he pointed out several more trees and plants on the path as they passed through a boggier region, speaking more than Ciri had heard him do since they had first met in Sodden.

“White cedar,” he gestured upwards towards a tree with delicate brown bark, “It can be used to help cure fevers and coughs. Calamus sedge, here, has roots that can be powdered and used for headaches and vertigo. You can burn sweetgrass to keep insects away, and to inhale to clear the lungs after an infection.”

They went on like this for some time, sometimes stopping to ride on in silence when there was nothing of interest to be discussed. As they ascended further along the path, the terrain became rockier and the trees became shorter and more stunted, twisted by the wind and bent over like old women. Small lizards skittered amongst the rocks, and the stones themselves became considerably more interesting. Several times, Ciri saw what she thought were the shapes of shells embedded in the stones, but she dismissed that as impossible. They were halfway up a mountain, and there was no sea to be found except for many leagues to the West. But she kept seeing the coiled little shapes, more and more frequently as they ascended into an part of the mountain that must have, at one time, experienced a rockslide. Boulders the size of houses were tossed about as though they were no larger than playthings, some covered in the strange shapes.

Finally, Geralt stopped under the protection of a large boulder and dismounted Roach.

“We can stop and have lunch here before we go on. Try to stretch your legs, I don’t plan on stopping again until we reach our camp for the night.”

Ciri leapt of Aerra’s back, and immediately clambered up the large boulder to get a better view of the scree. Far below, she could see a lake that was a bright, emerald blue, separated from them by rank upon rank of tall coniferous trees, marching proudly up the side of the mountain like soldiers. When Ciri ran her hands over the boulder itself, she found what were unmistakably the imprints of seashells and other invertebrates, right under her fingertips.

“Geralt!” She called down, too curious and surprised to contain it, “Come see this! There are shells, right here on the mountain! And no sea for leagues!”

Geralt offered her a rare smile when he looked up and saw her, crouched on the boulder, rosy-cheeked and hair flapping wildly in the wind. 

“There was a sea here, once, before the convergence of the spheres,” Geralt pulled himself up gracefully onto the rock, and tossed Ciri an apple and some cheese, “When it fell away, the creatures that lived in it were left with no home. They died, and their bodies were entombed in the mud, which eventually turned to rock.”

Ciri gaped at him, small tendrils of her hair sneaking into her mouth as the wind rushed by.

“You’re lying. This place was never an ocean. How did people live here? Where did the animals go?”

Geralt took a sizeable bite of his apple and leaned back on one hand, adjusting his sword belt on his back and gazing out over the emerald lake. His knee bounced up and down, and his hair whipped wildly around his head.

“This was before people, and animals as we know them. Eventually, the seas froze, and melted away.”

Ciri processed this for a while, running her hands over the stones, utterly transfixed. It was an odd thought, to realize she was sitting on the floor of an ancient sea. It made her shiver, while at the same time leaving her utterly transfixed. Geralt stayed silent with her for a long while, eventually closing his eyes and lying back on the rocks, hands folded over his stomach and legs crossed at the ankles where they dangled over the edge. The more mischievous part of Ciri’s brain had a brief thought of popping a piece of cheese into his partially open mouth, but the part of her that was interested in self preservation quickly dispelled any such notions. She didn’t think she had ever seen Geralt so relaxed, and she didn’t want to do anything that would break the spell. Eventually, she laid back next to him and watched the soft clouds work their way across the sky and disappear behind the sheer face of the mountain.

While Ciri didn’t fall asleep, she was definitely not fully awake when Geralt finally stood up and took a few deep breaths next to her.

“Come, it’s time we were on our way, if we want to reach our camp before dark.”

Ciri sat and stretched while Geralt made his way down the side of the large boulder. When she followed him, she found him waiting for her at the bottom, holding something in his hand. He passed it to her, and she saw it was a small stone, with a circular shell perfectly placed in the centre.

“Put it in your room when we get back to Kaer Morhen. The quarters are barren there. It will help to add a personal touch.”

For the second time that day, Ciri let her mouth fall open in a fashion most unbecoming for the Princess of Cintra. She had never expected that Geralt even noticed how barren and impersonal the rooms were at Kaer Morhen, much less considered that it was difficult for her to live in a place that did not feel like a home. She curled her hand around the stone and resisted the urge to pull him into her arms. A small part of her wanted to sob as she tucked it into her saddlebags, wrapping it carefully in a shirt.

“Thank you.” She whispered, unsure of what else to say and unused to receiving gifts from Geralt, “It’s perfect.”

Geralt nodded, and caught her eye. Ciri hoped that her gaze conveyed what gratitude her words could not. He was balanced precariously on a boulder that pointed straight out of the ground, and as he nodded at Ciri, Roach reached out and nosed him a bit roughly, as if to tell him she wanted to get back to travelling. Her push left Geralt a bit off balance, and he stepped backwards into open air to steady himself. His right foot landed on the ground with an audible snapping noise, and he grimaced.

“Fuck, Geralt!” Ciri hurried forwards, too late to catch him, although he had already regained his impressive balance. He shot her a look.

“Don’t swear,” he grumbled, reaching down and wrapping both hands around his ankle, “I’ve just sprained it. It’ll be fine in a few days.”

His legs seemed a bit wobbly though, and he caught Ciri’s arm as he sat down on a rock, looking a bit disgruntled with himself. Ciri sat down next to him, shoulder pressed against his. They stayed like that for about five minutes, Geralt massaging his ankle, until he stood, much more steadily now, and limped awkwardly over to Roach. Ciri winced a bit watching him mount up with much less of his usual effortless grace. When he was seated, he let his right leg dangle free of the stirrup, trying his best to keep it straight.

“Are you sure we should go on tonight?” Ciri asked uncertainly, trying to make herself heard above the wind, which was howling with considerably more strength now. There was a long way yet until they reached the snow-covered pass, and the sun showed it was well past noon. “You said the pass was dangerous, and I’m not sure it would be a good idea to ride through when you don’t have both feet in the stirrups.”

Geralt shook his head stubbornly. If Ciri hadn’t known better, she would have wondered if his flushed skin was a blush, but she knew that ability had been taken from him during the Trials.

“We aren’t losing a day of travel because I was careless. It will be feeling much better in a few hours, by the time we get to the pass I’ll be able to ride normally again.”

Ciri shrugged. He had probably travelled through this pass hundreds of times, and she wasn’t about to question his own assessment of his limits. She mounted Aerra, and they rode on, through the whistling wind and the desolate rocks of the scree.


	3. Continuum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri continue on their journey. The mountains have other ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hallo! Thanks for sticking with me even though this chapter took longer to upload than usual! Life got in the way, especially since I'm planning a cross-country move in the next week. The good news is, I have a backlog of chapters currently, so my updating should be a bit more consistent over the next few weeks. Once again, a few notes about geology; if any of you are geology nerds and want to correct my (limited) knowledge of limestone, please let me know! Otherwise, enjoy!

Their pace had slowed considerably after they had stopped for lunch. Ciri had first noted this more as a curiosity than as an actual concern, but the longer they plodded on, the more fearful she began to feel. The pass was approaching, but if Ciri had learned one thing in her travels from Cintra it was that even when you looked like you were close to your destination, chances were there were still several hours of travel ahead of you. The sun was beginning to wane in the sky, and though it was not evening yet, it definitely felt closer to night than she or Geralt would have preferred. 

Ciri had taken up the lead about half an hour ago, at Geralt’s insistence that Roach was flagging. However, she had a sneaking suspicion that it was her mount who was struggling. She had suffered several ankle injuries as a little girl, and she remembered them as being more debilitatingly painful, and slow to heal. Even with his ability to heal faster than she could, Ciri suspected Geralt would be down for the count longer than he had originally predicted. Although, knowing him, she also suspected he would act as though he was fine as soon as the immediate, thudding pain subsided.

Twisting in her saddle for what felt like the hundredth time, Ciri saw he had pulled his hood up over his face. There was a chill wind on the air, especially as they approached evening, so this didn’t particularly concern her. Mostly, she was nervous about him sitting with his injured appendage hanging straight down underneath him. Even with the tension of his boot wrapped around it, she was sure it would swell abominably, in a way that was not remotely conducive to spending one’s days tracking deer through rough mountain terrain without risk of further bodily harm. Ciri sighed, wishing she had the mental fortitude of her grandmother. Calanthe never would have hesitated to tell Geralt what she thought. From what Ciri had heard, it had been the cause for mutual respect between the two of them, which she knew was a rare and precious gift. Calanthe had respected almost no one, and trusted even less.

“Where are we going to set up camp tonight?” She called, feeling the wind trying to grab her voice and whisk it away before it could reach Geralt’s ears. It was howling up here. Far above, icy tendrils were blowing from the mountain peaks, like the trails left behind when she had trailed her fingers in the fish pond of Cintra’s water garden.

“Over the pass, in the valley on the other side. The descent is easier, once we make it over the top.”

Ciri drew her cloak around her, shuddering a bit as an icy blast slapped her side, hard enough that for a second she thought it was a tangible object. Shards of snow drove into her face with needle-sharp precision, and the wind continued to scream. There was no chance of them being able to stop and make camp here, but Ciri felt frightened. There were small chunks of snow rolling down the slopes ahead of them, and she had not forgotten Geralt’s warning about this area’s preclusion for avalanches. Gritting her teeth, she buried her chin in the collar of her cloak and urged Aerra forwards, trying to ignore the part of her brain that screamed at her to turn back.

They continued on in this silent fashion for at least another hour and a half. The wind skittered over the mountain slope, which had given way from enormous rockfall to much smaller, windswept boulders. Tendrils of snow picked up and danced in the waning light, and every stone they passed looked to Ciri to be a corpse. The corpses in Cintra had been swept with a gentle dusting of snow, like sweets prepared in a baker’s window. After a while she simply shut her eyes and let Aerra guide them forwards, hoping her horse would not misstep. Even the howling wind reminded her of that fateful night, singing a melancholy tune as it whipped through her hair and teased her ears and lips with frightful cold. 

At some point, she heard the sound of Roach’s hooves approaching next to her, and looked up to see that Geralt had pulled himself abreast with her on a widening portion of the otherwise narrow path.

“Your horse is veering every which way on the path, Ciri. Have you forgotten how to ride? I told you to be cautious, especially as we approach the pass. One misstep could bring an entire mountain’s worth of snow down on us.”

Ciri jerked her head up, feeling horrific. Somewhere along the way, she had become so engrossed in the stones painted with snow, the corpses of her family, that she had forgotten where she was. A cardinal sin, had she been a Witcher alone on the Path. One that probably would have resulted in her death.

“Sorry,” She grimaced, “I think I’m just tired. It’s hard for me to see through all the snow.”

Guilt pounded in her chest for lying to him. But what would a man like Geralt know about the blame and terror she felt? She had never seen him cry or break, not even when discussing things that would have toppled an ordinary man. She knew the rumours about Witchers being unfeeling were untrue. But there was a part of her that was convinced he would have seen her pain as nothing more than weakness.

“I’ll take the lead for a bit. Take your legs out of the stirrups and stretch them. You’ll get frostbite if you stay still like that all evening. I don’t have the tools to amputate toes in the middle of the wilderness.”

Ciri gulped and quickly kicked away her stirrups. She noted, as Geralt guided Roach around her, that he was sitting a bit lopsided, placing all his weight on the foot that could still hold a stirrup. His injured ankle dangled uselessly, knee propped forwards a bit on the front block of the saddle. She was relieved to see he was at least making a halfhearted attempt to elevate it. Focusing on her concern for him took her mind of the many corpses she could still see out of the corner of her eye as Geralt led them onwards. 

\----

It was probably only a few hours later when they reached the pass, no more than a small dip between two great peaks that spiralled upwards into the receding light of the afternoon sky. When she tried to see the peaks, Ciri found herself craning her neck, gazing up at the heavens and seemingly endless spires of stone that grew up to meet them. If you stood on the top, she wondered, could you reach out and touch the stars?

Her fanciful thoughts were quickly abandoned as Aerra stopped abruptly, her nose nearly touching Roach’s rump. Ciri jerked forwards a bit in the saddle, and only then noticed that Geralt was calling for a halt. 

“What is it?” Ciri called up, once again feeling the wind reach to the back of her throat and try to shove her words back down. He had stopped, one hand raised in the air as though he were saluting. It quivered ever so slightly as the gale pressed on.

Eventually, Geralt shook his head and lowered his hand.

“Nothing,” he called, twisting awkwardly in the saddle to face her, his bad leg propped uncomfortably in open space, “I thought I heard a voice on the wind, but it couldn’t have been. No one but Witchers and the animals of the mountains travel by this route.”

Ciri stilled and listened, but she could hear nothing on the air except the sifting of snow through the rocks and the howling of the wind as it raced up and down the pass. She had her own fair share of hearing voices screaming on the wind. Usually her grandmother, or the families that had sheltered her in the refugee camp after Cintra’s fall. They called out for her endlessly, demanding she save them, pleading with her not to leave them to die. She wondered if, perhaps, her earlier assumption of Geralt had been wrong. Perhaps he heard the voices of the damned carried in on the wind, as well. But the gap between two towering peaks was not the right place to test such a theory. She shrugged a bit at him, watching as he maneuvered himself forwards again. As they rode forwards between the stones, his hand wrapped around the grip of his steel sword, and his head swung from side to side, scenting the air like a hound. Ciri remembered what Vesemir had told her, about passes being prime locations for ambushes. Whatever Geralt said about Witchers and animals being the only creatures to use this pass, he clearly was not as convinced of it as he let on. Ciri wrapped her hand around her own blade as she followed on Aerra.

They made their way through the pass without incident, although Ciri felt constantly as though the stones piled on either side were about to slip and bury them. There were small caverns sprinkled amongst them, which she looked at longingly. It was frigid; the tail of snow blown off the far-off peaks was dusting down gently on top of them. It was nearly pitch black now, and she was fearful of having to descend the other side in the dark. While Geralt could see with ease, it would have been nigh on treacherous for her if he had not been guiding them.

When they exited the pass, Ciri saw the slope on this side was far less treacherous than the one they had just ascended. Instead of steep switchbacks often overrun by boulders, the path here was relatively straight and hugged close to the bottom of the sheer face of the mountain on the lefthand side. It curved gently, and in the distance Ciri could make out the soft rushing sound of a river. She guessed the path probably met up with the river and led down into the valley alongside it; a far less dangerous approach than trying to descend through the rocky scree that she could see below them.

Geralt had stopped for a moment now they were clear of the towering spires, examining the landscape. Ciri could only see him for his pale hair, a silvery beacon in the otherwise murky night. She pulled Aerra up next to him and pulled her cloak a bit closer around her shoulders, trying to still her trembling a bit. She didn’t want Geralt to see how cold she was. For his part, he seemed fine, and she was loath to remind him again that she was far weaker than he was.

“Is there a lake over that way?” She gestured towards where she could make out the sound of rushing water, trying not to be too obvious in her suggestion that they stop and make camp there. Geralt was sitting stiffly in the saddle, and his jaw was set in a way that Ciri recognized from their ride from Sodden; it was the expression he had gotten whenever he had cleaned the wound in his leg, tight and guarded. Even if he wasn’t willing to admit it, the cold was probably doing nothing to help the ache in his ankle.

Geralt nodded tightly.

“It’s a limestone base, so it’s treacherous and easy for horses to fall through the pores in the ground. But there’s a small beach on the shore where we can make camp for tonight, and a waterfall at the base of the lake where you can bathe, if you’d like.”

Ciri shuddered at the thought of stripping her clothes and standing in what was probably fresh glacier water when she was already frozen to the bone. Geralt, however, looked rather wistful. She figured the icy water would probably do his ankle good.

“What does the limestone have to do with it being treacherous?” Ciri asked, bemused at the way Geralt presented such facts as though they were common knowledge, when Ciri had never before in her life had anyone warn her about the dangers of limestone based lakes.

“Limestone’s porous,” Geralt grunted over his shoulder as he turned Roach away from the outcropping and back into the path, “It doesn’t take much for it to break and send you dropping several feet into a cave. Most limestone lakes are higher up in the mountains, and they almost all drain through the pores into a waterfall. So if you ever see a mountain lake with a waterfall, be cautious.”

Geralt sounded exhausted, and Ciri was surprised at how much he seemed to have to say on the matter. It appeared she had, at long last, found a subject he was willing to discuss with her. She supposed this was how he had learned about the wilds; by journeying and experiencing instead of sitting in a dusty room reading books. This was probably a way of teaching he was far more comfortable with. 

Once they had fallen back into line on the path, there was no more opportunity for Ciri to ask questions. The wind blew too strongly, even under the shelter of the sheer face of the mountain. As they went along, though, she felt a little warmth bloom in her stomach, despite the chill air around her. The whole ride from Sodden, and the months they had subsequently spent in the Keep, Ciri had been unable to make any sort of meaningful conversation with Geralt. The only times he had talked to her more than absolutely necessary was when they were sparring together (during which he usually reprimanded her poor technique), or the few times on the road when she had awoken screaming about fire and men in black winged helmets. Both those times, Ciri had found herself feeling uncomfortable and deeply ashamed of her weakness. While this was still a situation in which Geralt knew a great deal more than her, it somehow felt as though they were finally meeting on equal terms. Perhaps their location had something to do with it. The great, towering spires of stone staring watchfully down upon them had a way of making anything smaller than them deeply human, deeply equal with their surroundings. It was a strange feeling, one that Ciri had only experienced before on her grandfather’s Skelligan ships, when the waves had towered so far above her Ciri had felt as though she were standing at the bottom of the sea, staring up into the heavens.

Eventually, the sheer cliff face gave way to bumpy grey rock, and the mountain wall receded further away, creating a small bowl which Ciri assumed housed the lake Geralt had told her about. It was still completely dark, even the stars twinkling in the sky were cut off suddenly by the sheer ridge of the mountain. It had been a long while now since they had departed the pass, and Ciri was relying entirely on Aerra to guide them, trusting her horse’s ability to follow Roach unquestioningly as Geralt led them over the rocky terrain. For her part, Ciri was drifting in the saddle, her head nodding and chin whacking against her chest with every step. The gentle clopping sound of the horses’ hooves seemed immeasurably louder and more startling on Ciri’s exhausted ears, her brain starting and waking at every small noise. The stones sounded more hollow now beneath Aerra’s hooves, echoing ever so slightly as they made their way over them, and there was no longer any path to speak of. Ciri dozed on, unwilling to completely slump over Aerra’s neck while Geralt was still awake, but unable to keep herself up either.

Finally, after what seemed like hours of hearing Aerra’s hooves echo over the limestone and the gentle exhalations of both horses amplified by the high walls of the mountains, Geralt called for Ciri to halt. Shaking herself and trying to look as little like she had just woken from a doze as possible, Ciri ran her fingers through her dusty, damp hair and stopped next to Roach, allowing the two horses to nose one another affectionately. Ciri spared a brief moment to offer up a hope that one day Geralt would treat her with the same parental affection.

“There’s a good place to camp about fifteen minutes from here.”

Ciri noticed, now that she was close enough to see Geralt properly, that he looked tired and was sitting very lopsidedly in the saddle, even more so than the last time she had noticed. He was now leaning far to the left to compensate and keep his seat.

“I’ll get a fire started and set up our things when we arrive,” Ciri offered worriedly, “You should sit down and rest a bit. Try to find a rock or something to put your leg up on. It’ll keep it from swelling up.”

Geralt shot her a look, but in the darkness and with his already unreadable features, Ciri had a hard time telling if it was one of fondness or frustration. Probably the latter, she thought disappointedly.

“I’m capable of setting up a camp. It’s barely broken.”

Ciri nearly choked and had to grip onto the pommel of Aerra’s saddle as she craned her neck down at the ankle in question.

“Broken? Geralt, you said you sprained it, not five hours ago.”

She winced a bit when her tone came out far too similar to the way her grandmother would speak to her after finding her scaling a dangerous cliff or broken part of the castle wall. It made her cringe, and she was surprised Geralt didn’t smack her.

“It’s hard to say when my boot is laced too tightly. At first, I thought it was sprained, but it feels broken now. It’s nothing. You know Witchers heal far faster than humans.”

Ciri swallowed the comments she might have been tempted to make had Geralt been her peer and not a father figure with whom she already felt she was on rather shaky ground with. Not for the first time, she was reminded of some of the men she had known in Cintra, knights to her grandmother or captains of the Skelligan vessels. The way they would crush down any kind of injury or pain until the last, practically snagging themselves on their own broken bones in an attempt to look noble and brave. Although Geralt had claimed on many occasions not to be held back by such scruples, Ciri was beginning to doubt it more and more. Either Witchers had highly advanced abilities to tolerate pain, or they were not so different from normal men as they would have others believe.

“I still think you should rest it,” she finally settled on, stubbornly holding her ground, “I’m more than capable of making camp. Besides, you’ve said yourself that if I don’t do things for myself I’ll never learn.”

Feeling rather proud of herself for wending her way through a difficult situation, Ciri looked up at him smugly. With what was something between a pained grimace and a confused glare, Geralt nodded almost imperceptibly.

“Very well.”

He sounded a bit defeated, and Ciri tried to quell a tiny bit of fear that sprung up in her chest. She had expected it to be far more difficult to convince him to give up control of something he normally did with religious sameness and precision. As they continued around the basin of the lake at a slow walk, she thought she caught him sleeping, but she thought it was probably a trick of the light. After all, they had only been travelling for a day. She had seen him travel for far longer, wounded and without sleep, on their ride from Sodden.

Finally, they stopped again in a small clearing; though there were not many trees to speak of around the lake anyways. The ones that did grow were scraggly, grasping for purchase in small crevices of dirt where the limestone had cracked. There was no soil here; a stark contrast to the lush, loamy earth they had travelled through while riding away from Kaer Morhen. Ciri grimaced a bit, the small bit of her that was still used to sleeping on feather beds rather disconcerted at the idea of laying out her bedroll on naked rock. She dismounted quickly and set about unpacking her bedroll and stringing edible things up a tree. It was only after several moments she looked up to see Geralt still in the saddle.

“Is this…not the place where we’re camping?” She asked uncertainly, shifting nervously from foot to foot and feeling very foolish.

There was a prolonged moment of awkward silence between the two of them, during which Ciri had the very uncomfortable experience of feeling sweat dripping down her sides. Geralt stared directly at her, as though he was hoping his thoughts would be sent to Ciri telepathically. Finally, with a grunt, he ran a hand through his hair, yanking long strands out from the half ponytail tied behind his head.

“Come here. I need to lean on your shoulder when I dismount; I don’t want to break this worse than it already is.”

Ciri felt a flush creep up her pale cheeks, and she felt incredibly grateful for the cover of darkness hiding yet another reminder that she was human. Feeling like an idiot, she stumbled over next to Roach and offered up her hand. She hoped it wasn’t shaking too much, and swallowed back her nerves as she imagined having to take all of Geralt’s weight. The last thing she wanted was to drop him.

Swinging his bad leg over the saddle with no fuss, even though Ciri saw his hands clench around the reins a bit, Geralt braced his hand on her shoulder and lowered himself to the ground. The maneuver was practiced and easy; it was clear this was not the first time he had done this. When his good foot hit the stone, he took all his weight imminently, though his hand did not stray from Ciri’s shoulder as he gained his balance after hours of riding. A few of the muscles in his back popped audibly, and Ciri winced sympathetically, her own aches and pains making themselves known.

“Should I help you over to a rock or somewhere where you can rest that? I can look after Roach, if you need.”

Geralt let go of her shoulder and limped uncomfortably down to the water. It was perfectly still, and Ciri experienced a very disorienting moment when he stepped onto what she had thought was still solid rock only to have ripples flair out under his boot.

“I need to set this,” he grunted over his shoulder, “Get a fire going and eat some dinner, then get some rest. You’ll need it for tomorrow. And don’t touch Roach. I’ll look after her when I’m done.”

He eased himself down painfully on the shore and set to peeling off his high boots and socks with various noises of discomfort working their way through his lips as he did so. In the silence of the mountain night, with only the distant roar of the waterfall and the rustlings of small woodland creatures to penetrate the unending noiselessness, his pained noises were far too loud on Ciri’s ears. She wanted so badly to help him, and no amount of reminding herself that this was likely no more severe than a broken finger for someone with Geralt’s healing ability could remove the small bit of unease niggling in her gut. 

“I can help you, if you need. I mean, you could show me how to set it. So I know, if I ever need to do the same.”

Ciri saw Geralt’s shoulders slump a bit. His hair was the same colour as the moonlight that shone down on it. He looked very tired. Ciri wondered if he had taken a day to himself since the two of them had arrived at the Keep.

“Get yourself some food, Ciri, and go to sleep.”

Sighing, Ciri turned away and shot Roach a sympathetic look. She wished she could at least care for Geralt’s beloved horse, who was sweaty and needing a brush and dinner. She barely caught what Geralt said next, and she sensed it wasn’t entirely addressed to her.

“I’ll make sure this is never something you have to learn how to do on yourself.”

A little warmth bloomed in Ciri’s stomach as she walked up the stones, untacking and grooming Aerra quickly, and lighting a small fire on the bare stones. There wasn’t a lot of kindling, and she was glad she had thought to bring her own. Rubbing her hands over the small fire and heating a bit of bread and cheese, Ciri could almost drown out an audible cracking noise, followed by a pained groan, that echoed across the water. She suppressed a shiver, feeling alone and cold. Geralt would protect them, she reminded herself. Not just now, but always. Keep her from having to learn to do such things to herself.

Ciri laid out hers and Geralt’s bed rolls on the flattest bit of the incline she could find, and curled up in her own. He had yet to join her, and something told her he would remain by the water until he was sure he was asleep. The fire was still crackling and popping a bit, embers dying and spitting like angry snakes. Sighing tiredly and feeling safer than she had in months, hidden away here in the wilderness, Ciri allowed her eyes to drift shut, listening to the soft lapping of the water on the stoney shore.

\----

There were birds singing, and a gentle whooshing noise of a wind descending over high peaks. These were all noises Ciri had become familiar with during her time living at the Keep, but today something seemed different. The wind was slightly stronger, the birds were nearer. There was the feeling of hot sun on her face, which made little sense since her window was West-facing and never got morning sunlight. She rolled onto her stomach and groaned a little; her muscles were sore as though she had just spent a day on the receiving end of Vesemir’s brutal training methods. Burying her face in her pillow, Ciri took a deep breath and nearly choked. Her pillow, normally clean and soft, stank of sweat and the odours of the outdoors. Sitting up, she found she had been lying face-first in a sweat stained travel coat, and that the sun was beating down on her because she had been sleeping outside. Her first thought was that Kaer Morhen must have been a dream, and that she was still running from Cintra. Then, she turned and saw Geralt, crouched over an early morning blaze, drinking tea from the travel mug he always carried with him. Ciri recognized his scent coming from the travel coat, and felt a burst of warmth and relief that he must have laid it under her in the night, and that she had not awoken alone and hunted. 

Breathing in and out through her nose and stretching muscles that felt extended near capacity, Ciri sat up and scooted over to the fire. Geralt tossed her an apple, which he had roasted on a stick, and she sank her teeth into the sweet, juicy flesh. The blaze crackling merrily in front of them looked different in the morning, Ciri thought. The flames seemed almost transparent in the faltering early morning light.

“Sleep alright?” Geralt asked, not looking up from his own breakfast. He was sitting on a rock with his legs stretched out in front of him, and Ciri saw that his right ankle was wrapped tightly in bandages, though his foot was bare. He looked very tired; there were dark circles under his eyes that she hadn’t seen since they had arrived at the Keep.

“Fairly well, considering there’s no earth to speak of here. You?” Ciri’s voice was garbled as she spoke around pieces of roasted apple, and Geralt shot her a look that reminded her too much of her grandmother.

Geralt didn’t answer, instead shrugging away her question and taking another long swig of tea. His free hand fiddled idly with a knife that was sheathed in his belt, and the light morning breeze played in his hair. Reminded of the state her own hair was probably in, Ciri gathered its fine strands into a tight ponytail at the base of her neck, spitting bits out of her mouth as she went. She gulped down some water when she was done and gargled obscenely, a trick taught to her by a nobleman’s son. It had brought her no end of delight as a small child to trot out this particular skill at banquets and feasts. With the Witchers, though, it was simply practical. In Eskel’s words, one never knew when having all of one’s teeth would be helpful. Ciri hadn’t found the need to bite anyone since being with Geralt, but she supposed if she meant to live her life on the Path, it would come in handy again before her days were through.

Geralt did the same and then proceeded to pull the laces on his right boot as loose as possible. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and then plunged his bandaged foot into the boot, clenching his fists a bit around the leather and muttering curses to himself.

“I can help, if you need.” Ciri approached him nervously and took the heel of the riding boot in her hand. Geralt sat back and let her push it gently onto his foot, taking measured breaths and trying to keep his foot in as close to a right angle to his body as he could. When she was finished, Geralt swatted her hands away immediately and began tying up the laces, pulling them so tightly Ciri wondered worriedly if he would cut off the blood supply to the injured appendage. When he stood, though, there was no sign of the limp that had plagued him the night before. The two of them efficiently strung all their things up the sturdiest pine they could find, and Ciri quickly packed a small lunch of apples and bread and tacked their horses while Geralt checked over their weapons.

“We’ll stick to this valley today,” Geralt said, tossing Ciri her crossbow, which she nearly dropped due to its weight, “Survey the lowlands along where the river flows. Often bears and deer will come there to drink. We’ll need to go down through a dangerous bit of limestone scree underneath the falls, so stay behind me until we reach the meadows.” 

Ciri nodded as she mounted up on Aerra. Part of her wished there was a safer route they could take, although she supposed danger was just the nature of travelling in the mountains. She didn’t want Aerra to injure herself, though. The horse had grown dear to her over the last few months. 

Geralt mounted up in front of her with a grunt, and jammed his right foot obstinately in the stirrup. It was still at a right angle with his body, which normally would never have happened. Geralt’s equitation was always nigh on perfect, even when he had been riding with a barely healed ghoul bite. Roach nosed at him a bit, irritated that his seat wasn’t to its normal standards, and Ciri suppressed a smile. Only Geralt would have a horse so in tune to his body that she recognized when one of his ankles was slightly out of place. They were a matched pair.

“What are we hunting today? It’s too hot to lug a bear or an elk all the way back up here. Should we focus on deer, or are we bringing down smaller game as well?”

Geralt twisted in the saddle, a hand on Roach’s rump, a grim smile on his face. It was the closest to amusement Ciri had seen on his face for a while, and if she hadn’t been so focused on the heat already penetrating her body, she might have commented on it. The two of them were both wearing black shirts and pants, a testament to how hot the day already was. Normally, Geralt rarely divested himself of his armour, even on the hottest of days.

“Oh, Princess. You may look and act like a common girl, but your words still identify you as nobility. We hunt what we can find. We bring down whatever we can, and if it’s too large to bring back with us, we butcher it where it falls. Unlike you, most can't afford choice in what we eat, especially with more and more game being eaten by monsters and other beasts going hungry.”

Ciri swallowed back a curse even as she felt a hot flush rise in her cheeks. It was an odd feeling, to be reminded of her nobility. It had been months since she had last felt like the Princess of anything. And yet, she still managed to betray herself. The last thing she wanted was for Geralt to think that her habits acquired from being a noble girl couldn’t be reversed. She knew it would pain him greatly to be saddled with an entitled brat for the rest of his days.

“Sorry,” she grimaced, “I just thought it would be…practical.”

“You’ll learn, Ciri. This life is very different from the one you’ve known. I forget that, often.”

Ciri nodded quickly, feeling a bit shocked Geralt had come so close to what seemed like an apology. She nudged Aerra a bit and followed Roach, who was making her way at a leisurely pace down the stoney shoreline. As they rode in the silent, buzzing heat, Ciri reflected that, so far, this had been the strangest two days she had ever experienced. It was as though Geralt couldn’t make up his mind. There seemed to be a part of him that was forgiving, nervous even, like he thought if he got too close to her he risked pushing her away or hurting her. But there was another part that seemed tired with her, that had no patience for her desire to be taught by him. And, as it always was with Geralt, his internal conflicts were projected, seemingly without his knowledge, onto those he cared about. It was exhausting. Ciri felt just as much at war with these two parts of the Witcher as it seemed he did. She wished he could make up his mind, and resolved to do everything she could today to convince Geralt that he would not hurt her by allowing her to be his daughter.

They rode on for silence for what felt like nearly half the day, but Ciri could tell from the position of the sun it had been barely more than an hour and a half. She was lost in thought, though not the painful thoughts that normally wracked her subconscious. The path here was clearly travelled, and she felt a similar vibration that she often felt within the walls of the Keep. It felt as though there were ghosts here, men who had hunted and travelled this way, men with amber eyes and unearthly silence. They stalked next to her, behind her, and sometimes she felt like their ghostly hands reached out and touched her, wrapping their fingers in her hair. It lifted, occasionally, though there was almost no breeze as they descended through the scree. Ciri wondered what had happened here, why it felt just as ghostly as the Keep. Perhaps, at one time, there had been another Keep here, as well, full of Witchers who were long dead now. Truly, Ciri did not know. She knew very little about Witcher history besides that of the Wolf School. And she knew she could feel that there was something different here, some presence of spirits that she had not felt since they had departed. She also noticed that, occasionally, Geralt’s hair would lift as though caught by a ghostly breeze. Whenever it did, he would brush at it irritably and shake his head, as though there was something in his ear. Ciri wondered how aware he was of the disturbance going on around them, and if she should alert him. She decided against it, though. Whatever was with them, it seemed to bear them no ill will. And, on the off chance it was some well kept secret, she didn’t want to give Geralt another reason to mistrust her or her powers until she truly understood them herself.

Through the rocks and into the valley they travelled, at which point Ciri felt rather than saw the shadow hands disappear into thin mist behind her. Their going left her with a feeling of loss, as though someone had taken her breath away, leaving her half empty. It ached a bit, and a small, strange part of her longed for the connection again. But she continued with Geralt, until he held his hand up for them to stop.

“See, up there on that rise?” Geralt gestured with two fingers, and Ciri followed them to see a small, lumbering dot far up on an Eastern face, painstakingly obvious among the snow. A huge, brown bear. She kicked herself for not noticing it as well; Geralt had probably been tracking its movements for some time now, following along the bottom of the face. He turned and scented the air, an action which reminded Ciri frightfully of her grandmother’s hunting dogs when they had picked up a scent.

“There’s blood on the wind. It’s just made a kill, so it’ll be slow and tired. We can track it up the face and take it down from a distance, so long as we stay downwind.”

Ciri wrinkled her nose, trying to pick up the blood scent on the wind. Whatever was so clear to Geralt smelled like nothing more than clear mountain air to her. Frustrated, she nodded, resigning herself to once again being the weak link. She felt unsure of travelling up a snow-covered face, especially after all Geralt’s warnings about avalanches and rockslides. From what she could see, there was scree mixed in with the snow where the bear was, thus combining the two things every Kaer Morhen Witcher had warned her about before they had left the Keep.

“Is it safe to travel up there? With the rocks and the snow?”

Geralt appraised her.

“You tell me. Use what information you have, and tell me if it’s safe to travel up there.”

“Well, you just said we should follow the bear up there. So, yes?”

“You’ll need to do better than that. Any merchant in any village could tell you a path is safe when it isn’t, especially considering you’re a Witcher girl. There are plenty of prejudices in this land. You should never take someone at their word, especially when it comes to your safety.”

Frowning at him, Ciri turned back to the face and considered it carefully. She knew next to nothing about the mountains, having never seen one before she arrived at Kaer Morhen, and she felt more than defeated. The face looked like every other face she had seen since they had arrived, with the addition of some loose rocks mixed in with the snow. There was nothing to give her a clue as to why it would be safe to track the bear, which was still lumbering along — unless…

“The bear’s tracks come by the way we want to go!” Ciri shouted triumphantly, motioning wildly at the face. Geralt clapped a hand over her mouth.

“Not so loud, it’ll hear us. Any hunter should know not to shout like a loon while tracking prey.”

Properly chastised, Ciri continued in a lower voice. She knew Geralt would be able to hear her regardless.

“If the bear could travel by that way and not cause a rockslide, the two of us shouldn’t experience any difficulties, yes? There’s nothing that looks like the snow has been disturbed in that area beyond the bear’s tracks, so it must be stable, even though it doesn’t look that way from here.”

“Not the answer I would have chosen, but an acceptable one, considering you didn’t grow up in the mountains. Shall we go put your theory to the test?”

Ciri nodded and nudged Aerra gently. She didn’t suppose that Geralt would allow them to ascend the face unless he had also determined it to be safe, whatever his reasoning might have been. He allowed her to lead the way to the edge of the tree line, at which point he instructed her to dismount and tether Aerra to a tree. The bear was likely far more familiar with the scent of horses, he said, considering there were wild ones that frequented these parts. Their own scents, should they accidentally get downwind, would be unfamiliar and therefore less likely to cause the bear to attack. They continued on foot, Geralt limping along behind Ciri.

“I can take it down by myself, you know,” she finally said, after about five minutes of pained grunting as they scrambled stealthily over the scree, “I don’t think it’s a good idea to boulder with an ankle that’s barely hanging on by a thread.”

Geralt shot her a look and leapt lithely to crouch next to her.

“It’s fine. And hanging on by far more than a thread. Just stiff. Besides, I don’t know how you plan on butchering that bear and hauling it down the mountain by yourself, Princess.”

There was a note of fondness in the last note, and Geralt gave her a gentle shove, which surprised Ciri so much she nearly fell off the boulder they were both crouched on. She grimaced back at him.

“I certainly hope I’m more than that now. But you’re right, I couldn’t drag that thing down the mountain by myself. Though if you’d said you needed to stop, I would have tried my hardest.”

“That’s what I was worried about.”

They stayed there for a while, Ciri’s heart pounding a little harder, waiting for the wind to change so they could journey upwards. Geralt had never shown his affection for her like that before. It gave her a little more hope that things were improving between them. Finally, the wind changed, and Ciri saw that the bear had stopped completely, taking shelter next to a large rock, presumably about to rest for a bit. She felt elated. The conditions were perfect for a successful hunt, and she wanted to impress Geralt by taking down the first animal they tracked. She had no proficiency in the other things at which he excelled, but hunting was one thing that she had always enjoyed, and she was eager to show that she was more than capable, at least in this one way.

They continued upwards for a bit longer, eyes fixed on the bear. Then, Ciri turned to Geralt.

“I think I’m close enough to get a good shot now,” she said, pointing out the near horizontal line that she was planning on aiming down, “I’ll go a little closer, to make sure I make the shot. Stay here, you needn’t bother your ankle until we’re sure I’ve brought it down.”

Geralt shrugged, seeming more than content to let her take the shot, reclining on some rocks. Ciri ventured forwards, out into the snow a little, although she was still covered from above by some large boulders. Just as she was about to crouch down and lay her crossbow across a higher rock, though, the winds shifted, shooting like daggers straight down the mountain face. A harsh dusting of snow set Ciri off balance, but she quickly regained it. The stones above her, however, were not so lucky. The winds had been strong enough to push them just enough off kilter than they teetered for a moment, precarious on their axes, before beginning a slow roll down the face, pushing snow with them. Geralt gave a shout from behind her, and Ciri, still trying furious to wipe the blindingly cold snow from her eyes, looked up, petrified by fear at what she saw there.

“For fuck’s sake, Ciri, run!”

Ciri tried to run, she really did. She got her legs gathered underneath her, coiled and ready to spring, but her muscles felt as though they had been turned to stone. She couldn’t even draw breath, her lips parted a bit and letting icy shards blow into her mouth. She wanted to scream and run, but she just stared, heart pounding so loudly she felt as though she might burst. The moment seemed to take forever, as she sat there, crouched and made of stone. A painfully logical part of her brain reflected on the irony that, after all she had survived, she would be killed by a rockslide thousands of leagues from Cintra and from anyone who actively wanted her dead. She rejoiced a bit that none of them would get the satisfaction of killing her themselves. Then, a heavy weight slammed into her back and she found herself flying through the icy air, landing facedown in the snow. The fearful trance broken, she struggled to her feet and turned to see what had pushed her.

Geralt stood behind her, weight perfectly adjusted to keep his balance on the icy face. For a moment, she thought he had also escaped imminent danger. Then, she saw the stones rumbling above him, and realized no amount of perfect balance or skills with the sword would save him. She screamed, the high pitched note made bright against the harsh snow, and they locked eyes for a moment. Ciri’s heart froze. Her legs were running underneath her, but she felt detached and empty. The sound of the avalanche rumbled loudly in her ears, keeping time with her now pounding heart and heaving lungs. She wished she had signs, wished she knew any kind of magic that she could call upon at a whim to save Geralt. But, when she reached deep inside of herself, searching for the sea of chaos that normally resided there, she found herself empty, a dried up well. The chaos was gone, replaced by icy shards of fear that she could feel piercing her very heart as though they were bright swords, her grandmother’s steel shining in the sunlight. When she looked down at her hands, they were red, covered with Calanthe’s blood. And when she looked up, she was just able to lock eyes with Geralt once more before his body was enveloped by a cloud of icy snow, the same colour of his hair. There was a rushing noise as the snow passed her by, and then nothing. The snow continued down the slope. A gentle dusting of ice settled softly to the ground, as beautiful as it had looked during the solstice evenings Ciri had danced away in the streets of Cintra. 

Ciri fell to her hands and knees, jarring them against the hard packed snow. Her breath heaved in and out of her lungs, but she couldn’t think, couldn’t gain enough control of herself to make sense of what had happened. Name of all the people in her life who had disappeared from it repeated over and over, like a mantra. She wanted to scream, wanted to cry, but nothing came. Just blood, dripping softly against the snow, sinking in and turning it orange and hot. Ciri put a hand to her nose, and realized it was bleeding, that her efforts to summon chaos had probably nearly killed her.

She laid her head against the cold snow. Shivers wracked her frame, but she did not care. There was nothing in front of her but endless snow. Her breath puffed tiny snowflakes away from her face, and she could feel pins and needles forcing their way into her skin from the cold. Her clothes were soaked. 

The wind pushed down the slope, and Ciri could feel a small pile of snow beginning to pile at her back. She was shivering still, and the sun was beginning to set beneath the horizon, but she did not care. Her eyes were open, but all she could see was her grandmother. Geralt. The tailor’s family killed in the refugee camp outside of Cintra. All people she had failed. All people she could not save. All people she had failed miserably, because of her own inability to act.

A single tear dripped off the end of her nose, mingling with the blood still dripping out of it, and melted softly into the snow below her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to pop a comment or kudos if you enjoyed and that's your thang!


	4. Spirit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri recovers her senses and receives help from a supernatural source. Geralt's fate hangs in the balance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I present...the chapter after the cliffhanger! I just wanted to say thank you so very much to everyone who's popped in with feedback on this chapter. Even if it's just keyboard nonsense, it means so much to me to know I'm not just shrieking into the void! Also, thank you so much to my fantastic beta, RoachIsJudgingYou, for reading over this and correcting all my oversights.
> 
> As a registered EMT, some of the stuff in this chapter makes me cringe. Please don't take this to heart. It's done solely for the sake of whump. Don't move people with hypothermia abruptly. And don't attempt to puncture into the intercostal space on your own. That is all.
> 
> A word about Geralt's medical knowledge and Ciri's: I'm operating under a head canon that, like many royals, Ciri spent time working with healers and boosting morale amongst soldiers, so she has a fairly extensive knowledge of healing and medical procedures. Geralt does too. He's just too tired and hurt to use it effectively in this story.

Ciri lay on the ground for what felt like days. She felt like a corpse, with the wind blowing snow over her, tendrils of her hair freezing into the snow, which had turned icy under her face from the blood and tears. Her hands were clenched underneath her, her body’s final attempt to try to keep her warm. She thought she was dying. It was freezing cold, and there was only so long that she could sustain herself lying here, exposed on a mountain face, open to the elements. Vesemir and Eskel would be disappointed, she supposed. But by what, she was not sure. After all, it was by her stupid mistake that Geralt had been allowed to die. He had asked her to prove the mountain was safe, and she had been overconfident. Then, when her own stupidity had put her in a dangerous situation, he had been killed saving her life. She had no doubt that there would be very little love for her at Kaer Morhen when she returned. Perhaps Vesemir would exile her to the slopes of the mountains, to be hunted and killed like prey by the Nilfgaardian soldiers who pursued her. The man with the winged helmet entered her consciousness, dark and ominous, always almost out of sight. Ciri shuddered involuntarily. She was frightened to think of what he would do to her before she died by his hand. Surely, it would not be nearly so peaceful as simply allowing herself to expire on this slope, alone and frozen into the snow. No one would ever find her here. Her body would be safe. Her story would die with her. No one would ever have to know that Cirilla of Cintra had killed everyone who ever showed her even a bit of kindness.

However, the longer she lay, shivering in the snow, the more cowardly she felt for desiring such an end. Her grandmother had died to save her. So had Geralt. Even the people of the refugee camp had, however inadvertently. And now that she was faced with a choice, she couldn’t even peel herself off this snow covered face to bring Geralt a bit of peace. Calanthe, had she been here, would have been furious. She had raised Ciri to be a woman of honour. So had the Witchers of Kaer Morhen, and so had every other long-dead Cintran who had played a vital role in shaping who she was. If there had been spirits of Witchers in this valley earlier, they were now replaced by Ciri’s own spirits, swirling around her, reprimanding her. Insisting that she be better than to die alone and as a coward. Let her be exiled from Kaer Morhen. Let the Nilfgaardians have their way with her. She was a Princess of Cintra, and princesses did not die bereft of honour on mountain slopes.

To that end, Ciri began pushing herself off the frozen ground. It was a difficult task; where her tears and blood had flowed over her arm she was near frozen to the earth. But, at the very least, she had to tell Eskel and the other Witchers what had happened. She had to bring them back Geralt’s body if she could. Eskel had told her it was a great honour and privilege to be buried at the Keep with their brothers killed in the Trials, since most Witchers were never brought home after their deaths in the far corners of the earth.

Ciri managed to sit up and shake the snow from her frozen limbs. She must not have been lying in the snow for nearly as long as she had thought, because even though she had felt dreadfully cold while lying still, the blood was returning quickly to her extremities now. She wiped a bit of crusted, dried blood off her nose, and wished she could harness her chaos enough to form Igni. A little warmth up in the frozen wilderness would have done her a world of good.

Thinking of Igni only reminded Ciri of Geralt, and her grief hit her like a blow now that she was more aware of herself. She felt her stomach turn, and she barely had time to flop to the side before she was vomiting into the snow. Hot tears streamed down her face from the strain, but the wind was so strong it blew them off before she even had a chance to wipe them away. She stayed like that, on her hands and knees, panting. Her hands were numb, and no longer felt the icy pain of being buried in the snow. Her shoulders trembled with shivers, though.

After a few more moments of trying, and failing to collect her thoughts, Ciri pushed herself onto trembling legs. Almost immediately, she listed sideways, catching herself on an elbow and feeling grateful for the upward slope that kept her from falling too far. She scrunched her toes and rolled her ankles a few times, and then tried standing again with more success. Each step jarred her freezing muscles, sending lances of pain shooting up from her feet. She limped forwards a few steps and tried to get her bearings.

The sun had nearly set now, and there were a few stars twinkling in the cold sky above her. The snow looked flat and hard, an impenetrable stoney surface under which Ciri knew Geralt was buried somewhere. She couldn’t think of him as a body. Not yet. Not until she knew for sure. 

There was a small disturbance where the avalanche had come through, although the wind had made great progress in flattening the snow again. The boulders that had provided Ciri shelter when she had been trying to shoot her crossbow were gone, but she could see what she thought was their faint outline where the slope flattened out a bit, far below. There was also a small pile of snow directly in front of them; clearly the avalanche’s destructive path had not had enough force to get it all the way down the mountain. A small mercy, Ciri thought. At least she would not need to climb all the way down to find Geralt before making her way back up to where they had left their horses.

Thinking of Roach sent another stab of pain through her gut as she began her treacherous descent through the slippery snow. Ciri had grown to love the mare dearly on the travels. She knew Roach would never forgive her for allowing Geralt to be swept away. Part of her wanted to start crying again, but all her tears were spent. She felt empty, open, vulnerable. A tiny speck making her way down the side of a mountain, nothing more than a blight on the earth, too small and insignificant to even save the man who was as close a thing as she had ever known to a father. The wind and the harsh weather of the valley rent her open and laid her bare. She felt like a corpse, making her way down the slope, barely thinking or feeling beyond her own rawness. Every once in a while, her boot would sink unexpectedly through the snow and jolt her from her trancelike state. But other than that, Ciri continued her journey like one asleep, moving more out of reflex than out comprehension. Her mind tried to journey far away from here, but all she encountered were corpses. Corpses, and Geralt’s bright amber eyes in the moment before she lost sight of him in the snow. There was no escaping the hard truth of her failures.

After over two hours of stumbling through the frozen land, Ciri crashed to a halt. Her hands, which she had started holding out in front of her now that it was too dark to see, crashed into solid stone. Gasping and exhausted, she rested her head against it, sobbing though she could no longer cry. Perhaps Geralt was under this very rock. She pressed herself into it, a small part of her wishing that if she tried hard enough she could simply pass through it, gather Geralt into her arms, and make him whole again. Her knees began to tremble, and she sank down into the snowy ground, head bouncing along the rough surface of the boulder.

“Geralt, please, for fuck’s sake,” she stopped here, licking her lips as she remembered the many times Geralt had reprimanded her for cursing, “Give me some kind of sign to help me find you. I want to bring you home. I want to make this right. Goddess, I’m so sorry.”

She slammed her fist angrily against the rock, knowing nothing would come of it. Ciri had long since stopped believing in any of the Gods or Goddesses or thrice-damned eternal flames. None of them had made an appearance when she had prayed day and night for Cintra to be spared. None of them had intervened when she had watched women and children raped and burned alive. Deities that had no interest in stopping such atrocities had no interest to Ciri. What was the point of omnipotence if there was still death and suffering in the world?

She must have passed out curled weakly into the side of the rock, because the next time Ciri opened her eyes it was light out again, and she felt strangely warm. Shaking her head and blinking sleep away from her eyes, she felt a surge of something strange pass through her flesh. A strong shiver, followed by an eruption of gooseflesh across her whole body. Something crackled in her fingertips, and there was the faint but distinct smell of ozone on the air. The air was freezing, and Ciri realized the only thing that had kept her from developing hypothermia was probably her chaos, swooping in at the last second to save her from an icy grave. She resented that. Resented that it had chosen to save her but not helped Geralt when she had called for it. She smacked her hand frustratedly against the stone again, and a small burst of sparks flew off its surface, followed by a light sprinkling of dust. She noticed that there was one of the stone seashells inches from her nose. Her heart, or what was left of it that was undamaged, was rent in two. Ciri rested her head against the shell for a few moments, trying to gather her wits enough to formulate a plan. Geralt must be buried here somewhere, but she had no idea where he might have ended up or how she would go about finding him. And while she refused to think of her task as one to recover a body until she knew for sure, the practical part of her brain wondered how many pieces of him she would have to uncover. Rocks were brutal and unfeeling. These ones could have crushed him to pieces easily, armour or no. 

As she lay bonelessly agains the stone, trying to summon the energy to begin digging, there was a crackle at her fingers again. Surprised, she stared down at them. A recollection of a conversation she had had with Lambert several months ago resurfaced in her consciousness.

“Fuck, I can’t do it!” Ciri had shouted, throwing down her book and stalking out into the hallway. Vesemir had let her go. She was still damaged and vulnerable, and did not take kindly to being pursued after so many weeks of being hunted through the wilds.

Once in the hallway, she had sunk to the floor, trying desperately to form Aard with her fingers for what felt like the hundredth time that afternoon. She had been able to feel the chaos, bubbling beneath her skin, but it was like there was a dam, an unbreakable wall preventing her from accessing it. It sat below the surface of her consciousness, taunting her. Waiting for her to break so it could burst forth and do irrevocable damage to the one place she could truly call home.

Lambert had found her, slumped against the wall, several hours later. She had quickly wiped up her angry tears, not wanting to engage in a snide conversation with the young Witcher. Most of his remarks were cruelly designed to make Ciri feel insufficient, and she hadn’t been sure if she could take that at the moment.

“What’s wrong, Cirilla?” Lambert had insisted on calling Ciri by her full name for the first few months she had lived at the Keep, and she had hated every moment of it, “Vesemir finally get fed up and give you a belting? I figured he would eventually. I’m surprised he lasted as long as he did.”

Ciri had felt the chaos bubbling more violently inside her, but she swallowed and pushed it back down.

“Fuck off, Lambert. I’m trying to learn signs, and if you’re not careful you’ll end up on the end of my first Igni.”

Lambert had let out a burst of incredulous laughter.

“You’re telling me that Cirilla, mighty enchantress and defeater of Nilfgaardian knights, can’t even conjure Aard or Igni? Gods, I’m surprised Vesemir let you through the gates. Are you sure Geralt found the right girl? The man’s probably going blind in his old age.”

Ciri had considered trying Igni on Lambert, but decided that the humiliation if she failed would be more than she was willing to endure at the moment. She had stood, wiping fresh tears from her face, about to bolt down the hall, when a thin hand caught her arm.

“If you ever tell anyone I said this, I’ll deny it and string you up from the highest wall in the Keep. But sometimes, it takes time for a Witcher to learn the signs. I didn’t learn until I was at the Keep for about a year, and only then when I tried Axii to keep one of my masters from performing further mutations on a friend. Needless to say, he was immune. But sometimes, it takes more than just determination to make your signs take.”

Lambert had looked bitter and sad as he turned away. At that point, Ciri had not known enough about the Trials and mutations to truly understand why he would have done such a thing. Only that it had been the cause of some great inner turmoil. Her ability to perform signs had never blossomed, and she had forgotten the incident altogether.

Now, as she looked back at what Lambert had said, with a deeper understanding of the fact that he had probably tried to save that boy from certain death, an idea dawned on her. Taking a deep breath, she backed up and focused all her attention on the rock in front of her. Then, her fingers numb and clumsy with the cold, she formed the shape of Aard.

At first nothing happened. Frustrated, Ciri almost let the sign break. But there was a smell of ozone on the air, and she pushed on for another moment. There was a deep, rumbling, cracking noise. Then, the stone shifted, blasted out of the radius of the avalanche by a burst of energy that came down on it like a great wind. Ciri stumbled backwards, panting. Her energy was greatly depleted, but there were only two more immovably large boulders. She had to get Geralt home. She had to bring him to his brothers and give him the burial he deserved. Trying her best to position herself in a way that would blast both rocks away at the same time, Ciri formed Aard again.

This time, the sign took effect almost imminently, and the subsequent energy drain drove Ciri to her knees. But the boulders flew out of the way as if they were no more than pebbles, and when she was able to lift her head, the site of the avalanche had been nearly cleared away. All that was left to do was to dig through the snow. She took a moment to catch her breath and tried not to allow herself to get too caught up in the victory of having been able to form signs, finally. It was too tainted by the circumstances. Ciri heaved herself to her feet, stumbling across the windswept slope to the final resting place of the avalanche. The wind pushed at her weakened body, and nearly sent her toppling, but she remained upright. When she arrived, she ripped two large strips of leather off her jacket and wrapped them around her hands, hoping to stave off the cold a bit. Then, with no fanfare other than a deep, bracing breath, she began to dig.

\----

Several hours later found Ciri, gasping and near exhausted, scraping her bloodied hands through yet another snowdrift. The packed snow cut at her hands worse than knives, and the snow she had already cleared away was stained brown with dried blood. Her hands themselves were cracked and dry, even underneath the leather bandaging.

Finally, she sat back. She wanted to scream, wanted to summon chaos until she brought the whole mountain down. After clearing over half the snow, she had still found no sign of Geralt. He was gone, and for all her abilities, she could not find him. Sinking back on her heels, she ran bloody hands through her hair and across her face. There was nothing for it. If he was dead, which he almost definitely was, she would need to rest before digging the rest of the snow away. But a small part of her brain nudged at her, told her that there was a small chance that she was wrong. At first, she nearly laughed. Calling out for him, even if by some miracle he had survived, would do next to no good. There was no way they would be able to hear one another over the howling wind whipping down the mountainside. But, she reminded herself, Geralt could hear far better than her. And there was no harm in trying, after all. 

Ciri gathered as much air into her lungs as she could muster. She rubbed her hands against her chest, trying to warm herself in the vain hope that it would find some yet hidden reserve of energy. All her other reserves were completely depleted. And then she called.

“Geralt! If you’re out there, please help me! I need to find you, it’s getting too cold, please!”

She felt a small surge of chaos pass through her, and her voice seemed a bit more amplified than normal. But there was nothing. Just the howling of the wind. Slumping, dejected, Ciri blew a little on her shaking hands and returned to digging. And it was then that she heard something, barely more than a whisper floating on the gale force wind. Licking her chapped lips, Ciri raised her head, sure it was her mind playing tricks on her. And then she heard it again, and felt a gentle touch on her shoulder. Starting violently, she scrabbled backwards across the snow. There was nothing behind her. Gasping, she stared at the sky, which was starting to show signs of a storm. It looked pregnant and heavy, and snowflakes were beginning to swirl down with increased ferocity. Then, as she watched, gaping, the snowflakes began to mass together. First into fingers, and then a hand, which clenched experimentally a few times. It was intricate, the swirling snowflakes making a perfect replica of delicate fingers, even down to the creases in the knuckles. Ciri had to snap her mouth shut to keep the snowflakes from piling on her tongue.

The hand reached out and touched her shoulder gently, and the moment it made content an icy presence worked its way into her mind. It swirled in her brain, as separate as the snowflakes that made up the hand, yet held together by some kind of cohesive magic. It spoke softly, a whistle like wind over the planes and hills of Ciri’s mind.

We can show you the way.

Confused, Ciri took a moment to gasp like a beached fish. The invasion into her consciousness was frightening and alien, but she could tell it meant her no harm. It sat in her mind without invading her thoughts, without stripping her bare, though she knew it could have, had it wanted to. The hand pushed lightly at her, and she stood, not entirely feeling like her legs were under her own power. The being showed her where to go, but never spoke. It prodded at her gently, and the hand wended its way around her own bloody ones, infusing warmth and healing into them. She stumbled forwards, and then her knees bowed at the base of a rock, half buried under snow. She must have missed it when she was clearing the site of the avalanche, hidden as it was.

Here. Let us move the rock. You are tired, d’hoine.

Ciri felt a surge of power at the last word, an Elder word she had never heard before. She wanted to ask what it meant, and why it made her thrum with energy, taut as a bowstring. But she could not formulate the thoughts. Instead, she watched, awestruck, as the snow sifted away gently, and the stone rolled back softly. Underneath it, a pale hand rested on the snow, fingers clenched a bit. Pale, with bits of a leather sleeve showing. Ciri would have known Geralt’s hand anywhere, and she nearly tumbled headfirst into the indent in her headlong rush to reach him. When she reached the bottom of the slope, there was a sudden rush of air, and an emptiness that left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Staring down at her hand, Ciri realized the snow had dispersed, blown away with the wind. And whatever being had occupied her mind had fled with it, leaving the faintest whisper of soft music echoing in the caverns of her mind. She felt a bit lost without it, a bit less ancient, a bit less knowing. But also changed. Whatever had been with her had left her feeling something new, some untapped resource buried deep in her chest. When she tried exploring the feeling further, a small voice in the back of her head that was unfamiliar chided her.

When the time is right, d’hoine. You will know. Wait for Tor Lara. Wait for what will carry you from here.

With Geralt’s pale hand in front of her, Ciri had little more opportunity to explore the strange newness tingling beneath her skin. It was full of unfamiliar words, unfamiliar places, and inaccessible power. She had no time for such things when there was an imminent task within her reach.

Scraping her hands desperately against the snow around Geralt’s hand, Ciri was surprised when it fell away completely, revealing a small cavern under the snow. She pushed the rest of the snow out of the way and lowered herself into it, feeling relieved for the respite from the wind, even though she was no longer cold or tired. When she saw Geralt, though, her knees weakened and she nearly fell, clenching a hand around the rim of the cavern to keep herself upright. A combination of terror and relief tingled through her veins.

He was sprawled on his back, pale face upturned. There was no blood in his hair, and his face looked surprisingly serene, so serene that at first Ciri thought he was dead. Then, a small breath passed through his lips, and she weakened further. She had not believed he had had any chance of survival. The resilience of Witchers continued to surprise her.

Kneeling in the crunching snow beside him, Ciri took stock of the rest of his body, running her now healed hands along his splayed limbs. His upper lefthand side felt wrong; the arm was clearly broken and his torso was misshapen in a way that led her to believe that he had more than a few broken ribs. As she sat back and took stock of him from a distance, she also noticed with increasing fear that there was blood bubbling at his lips. A vague memory surfaced in her subconscious; a Cintran knight who had taken a blow to the chest during a jousting match. His ribs had broken and pierced his lungs, and he had foamed blood for several days before finally dying. Ciri pushed the thought aside.

Besides the catastrophic damage to his side and arm (Ciri was fairly sure his shoulder was also broken), there were no other large injuries, except the previously broken ankle, still housed in its boot. Ciri was shocked, expecting him to have been crushed by the rocks. It seemed his infallible luck had once again stepped in. However, his lips were blue and face pale with the cold, and she realized he had been lying in this cavern for at least a day and a half while she had mustered the strength to find him. Even with his increased resistance to cold, there was very little chance that Geralt was not hypothermic by now. He was not shivering, but his skin was icy to the touch. Ciri remembered a sailor in Ard Skellig she had seen, icy and pale after falling into the ocean and swimming his way home in winter. He had not shivered either. But he had eventually warmed up and lived.

Ciri took stock. She could not leave him here for the time it would take to hike back to the horses. But she was also unsure of her ability to carry Geralt over such a long distance, especially through the treacherous snow. As she leaned against the wall, though, something in her subconscious nudged at her, encouraged her to try. It felt alien, a remnant of the spirit that had occupied her mind earlier, and curiously, Ciri obliged it. Her arms felt warm and hale, despite her nights out in the freezing cold with no food or water. Wondrous, she gathered Geralt up in her arms, protecting his injured side against her chest, and pushed him out of the cavern with no more effort than it would have taken to move a particularly large log. It was still difficult, but not impossible. She was warm, and healthy, and absolutely determined not to leave her father here to freeze.

Clambering out of the cavern after him, Ciri hefted Geralt over her shoulder with a grunt of effort and began the long hike back up the slope and through the scree. While they had not left the horses terribly far away, it felt endlessly far to go. Ciri hung her head and watched her breath steam out of her nose and mouth, panting and gasping as they continued their ascent. The wind had ebbed a little, and the snow no longer swirled with such ferocity. Every step felt like a monumental effort all the same, and when they finally reached the rock scree through which they had entered the glacier, Ciri was so exhausted she nearly missed the rocks, catching her footing at the last second to keep them from falling. Groaning tiredly, she clambered over the rocks, distracting her mind with thoughts of a warm bath and a bed. Of being home in Kaer Morhen. Of getting Geralt there safely and without further incident. She could still make this right, she thought, if she managed not to make any more unforgivable mistakes.

Once they were off the glacier, Ciri was shocked by how much warmer it got. Under the cover of the scrubby trees and large boulders, there was almost no wind. She heard a familiar whinny, and had to restrain herself from bursting into tears as Roach and Aerra came into view, standing patiently where she and Geralt had left them. Roach pricked her ears when she saw her master slung over Ciri’s shoulder, and pawed the ground nervously. Aerra watched on with huge, liquid brown eyes. She nosed at Ciri affectionately when she collapsed at the base of the tree, allowing Geralt to slump on the ground next to her, barely conscious anymore of her accidental roughness. Every muscle in her body was quivering, trembling like the final heartbeats of a dying bird.

The moment Geralt flopped back against the tree, though, he gasped, a wet, rasping noise. Ciri started, and saw a thin tendril of blood dripping out of his mouth again. His eyes opened a crack, mouth tense with pain and throat working convulsively.

“Ciri?” He groaned, eyes confused and hazy, “Why…why’m I on a tree? Where’d Visenna go?”

His speech was so slurred Ciri had to lean in to understand what he was saying, not that it made much of a difference. Wherever his mind was, it was clearly far away from this mountain. Ciri did not have the faintest idea who Visenna was, or why Geralt thought she should be here. She stroked his cold cheek, trying to ground him a bit.

“We were hunting, and you got hurt,” she swallowed back her own guilt, promising herself that she would fill him in on the finer details when he was well again, “I’m bringing you back to our camp. Try to stay still, you’re terribly cold.”

He blinked up at her.

“M’leg…doesn’t hurt. Should hurt…and fuck, my ribs. Why’d my ribs hurt now? And why’s it so damn…cold?”

Ciri gulped. She had absolutely no idea where to begin explaining their situation to him when his mind was so foggy. She decided to play along instead, not wanting to add to the confusion that already permeated his expression. It was heartbreaking and vulnerable, and Ciri hated seeing him so lost.

“Your leg…was healed. But you got hurt on your side, so don’t move your arm or shift around. Visenna…she’s waiting for us. At our camp.”

This seemed to be a satisfactory answer. Geralt nodded sleepily, bringing up his good arm to rub at his shoulder. He missed the first time and banged his knuckles into the tree, and he groaned, shaking the hand a bit. Ciri took it gently and laid it back in his lap.

“We’ll get back to camp,” she reassured, trying to keep the trembling bit of fear out of her voice, “Just stay awake for a bit longer.”

Forcing her trembling legs to stand again, Ciri manhandled Geralt’s good arm over her shoulders and dragged him over to Roach, who dipped her head in a way that Ciri almost thought was respectful. She pushed Geralt’s boot into the stirrup and managed to shove him up onto the saddle, feeling a great deal of relief when Roach moved forwards to press her side against a tree, keeping him from sliding right off the other side. Then, Ciri untied both mares and fastened Aerra’s reins to the D rings of Roach’s saddle. She mounted up behind Geralt, and Roach stepped forwards with no prompting.

“Are you still there?” Ciri asked gently, feeling rather silly for the way she was talking to Geralt, usually so strong and stoic and now reduced to a freezing cold, confused mess, “I don’t want you to fall asleep until you’ve warmed a bit.”

To her eternal shock, Geralt turned his face into the warmth of her neck, leaning back on her. She had to readjust her weight to keep herself from toppling off Roach’s rump, but he seemed more comfortable with his arm resting against something, so she left it. Hopefully, he would not remember any of this when he was better. Ciri had a sense that the Geralt she knew would have been mortified to show real physical affection, even to his daughter. It made her ache a bit, but love him all the more.

They rode on in silence for miles, down through the scrubby trees to taller stands of pine, where the needles crackled under the horses’ hooves. When they reached the relative spring warmth of the bottom of the valley, Geralt began shivering, quietly at first and then so violently Ciri had to hold him in the saddle. Every muscle in his body was taut, and his face was tight with pain, though he did not speak. He was terribly clumsy, reaching out for his broken arm and shoulder only to overshoot and end up grasping at the open air. Ciri kicked Roach into a trot, no longer caring about keeping her steps even. They ascended the path next to the limestone waterfall as Geralt trembled violently, groaning whenever a particularly strong burst of shivers wracked his broken bones. His breaths wheezed in his chest, and as they ascended the slope Ciri looked down and saw that the front of her leather jacket was slick and shiny. When she ran her pale fingers across it, they came away slick with blood. She tilted Geralt’s chin up then, and saw that it was covered with blackened blood, dripping onto his own shirt as well. His eyes blinked hazily up at her, and she rubbed it away as best she could with her shirtsleeve, trying to calm her racing heart. Once, many years ago, Calanthe had forced her to work nursing soldiers come home from her wars. She had learned to set ribs and treat tears in the lungs there, but it had been a long time, and she had been young and bored. She realized she would never forgive herself if she could not save Geralt now.

Finally, the horses picked their way to the top of the waterfall, by which point Ciri was soaked with the spray that wafted off it and over the treacherous trail. She had tried to protect Geralt from getting wet, but his hair was soaked as well, and he looked very pale. Every once in a while, he would blink, but he seemed to be sinking in and out of a daze. She didn’t try to talk to him, for fear of what he might answer her with. When she saw their beachside camp in the distance, Ciri nearly sobbed with relief. It was midday by now, hauntingly similar in the light to the way they had left it, so carefree, just a few days ago. Desperately, Ciri wished for that time back. A time when her biggest concern had been not bringing down a big enough catch to impress Geralt, not saving his life.

Roach and Aerra were both covered in salty lines of sweat, and Ciri promised them that she would be back to give them a proper rub down as soon as she could spare the time. Then, she slipped off Roach’s rump, and hurried around to catch Geralt as he slid down his mare’s side, bereft of her support. His weight took all the strength out of her muscles, and they collapsed on the stone in an undignified heap. Geralt’s head and side had thankfully been pressed against Ciri, but he roused as they thumped down on the ground and stared up at her with confused eyes.

“Pavetta?” The sound of her mother’s name sent chills down Ciri’s spine, “I…did I not save you? Where are we?”

He reached up to touch her cheek, but missed and was left grasping at empty air, a confused look on his face. Loss of coordination, Ciri remembered. When a body got too cold, they lost coordination in their extremities, particularly hands. A strange but useful tidbit to remember at such a time. Gently, she guided Geralt’s hand to her cheek.

“It’s not Pavetta. It’s Ciri. You saved her, and now you have me.”

“Ciri? But…fuck. Build up the fire. You’ll freeze.”

His eyes rolled back in his head and he went slack in her grip. Thankfully, more of her time working with her grandmother’s medics in Cintra was coming back to Ciri. She couldn’t shake him, not when he was this cold. Moving him sharply could make his heart stop, and he’d already had one too many bad falls. Instead, Ciri slid her hands under his armpits and dragged him to the ashes of where they had made their fire before leaving. Desperately, she took the flint from the bag attached to her belt and snapped it against a stone that lay discarded by the fire. Sparks flew, but the fire would not ignite. Angrily, she cast the stones aside and sat back, remembering with a start that she had just recently performed her first signs. Ciri sent up a small prayer to anyone who was listening.

“Just once more. I’ll never ask for anything again, just the strength for one more sign, please.”

She curled her fingers into the less familiar shape of Igni, the broken triangle. For a moment, nothing happened. There was silence, and all Ciri could hear was the gentle lapping of the water on the stone shore. Then, with a ferocious drain on her energy, a great spout of fire extended from Ciri’s fingers and engulfed the remaining bits of kindling and ashes. The towering pillar of flames was so bright it made her eyes smart, and she had to look away, turning back to Geralt. He was trembling, deep shivers wracking his frame. When she touched his arm, almost every muscle was taut, tight and trembling, trying desperately to warm him. Ciri knew that this couldn’t be sustained. The effort his body was expending trying to keep him warm, as well as heal his other wounds, was too much. She had to get him warm, and quickly. But there were other pressing issues to attend to regarding his wounds as well. If his shoulder and arm were not set quickly, he would never regain a full range of motion, rendering him useless in using the main tools of his profession. And every time he drew breath, a sickly rattling, squelching noise emanated from deep within his chest. Ciri took a steadying breath, trying to choose which catastrophe to deal with first.

Eventually, she dragged over Geralt’s blankets and tucked them around him while she eased the shirt off his shaking form. His whole side was bruised nearly black, blood blistering and swelling under his skin. Ciri took a deep breath and tried to remember what she had seen her grandmother’s medics do so many times for a collapse of the lung. It was a delicate procedure, one that she had helped with and found interesting. She was grateful now, that she had been so intrigued by the blood and gore of chest wounds. A puncture like this would surely kill Geralt if she did not remember how to treat it correctly. Unfortunately, she did not have nearly all the tools she needed. A hollow tube, the main instrument used in the procedure, was a rare object, even amongst medics. Ciri extracted a small knife from her belt, normally used to cut kindling. She tossed it into the fire, leaving the hilt exposed, and then retreated to a stand of scrubby trees nearby. Needs must, she thought. It was this or let Geralt die.

It was lucky most of the trees at this altitude were dead and wizened. It took her very little time to find a mostly hollowed one of small enough dimensions so as not to cause Geralt to bleed out. Ciri found a flask of spirit in his pack, which she poured through the hollow opening in the stick, knowing it would do very little to truly clean it. Then, she braced herself, and picked up the knife out of the still crackling flames. Without taking a moment to think any further about what she was going to do, Ciri counted Geralt’s ribs, and found the space in between the fourth and fifth one. She made a slit, down through the skin and muscle, in between the bones, until she felt no give. He groaned and tried to turn away, but she had positioned herself sitting almost directly on top of him, foreseeing this eventuality. His eyelids fluttered, but he did not wake. As gently as possible, and wincing as bits of bark flaked off into the wound, Ciri worked the hollow stick into the cut she had just created, and then wrapped her lips around the end and sucked. There was a hollow noise, followed by gushing air, and she quickly moved her mouth away before a torrent of bloody, bubbly fluid poured out through the end of the stick, along with a good many bits of wood. Geralt shifted some more, and dragged a hand up to clutch as his abdomen. Ciri watched in horror as his eyes began to flicker open a bit.

“Fuck, no, no no. Don’t wake up now. I can’t hold you down, and I don’t want to hurt you, please.”

Geralt was shaking and clearly pained, and she took his face and wrapped her hands around it.

“Geralt, listen to me. I know you’re in a good deal of pain and very cold, but you can’t move. If you were better, you would understand why, just please, Gods don’t move. It will stop hurting soon.”

By some great blessing, Ciri’s words must have made an impression on his confused brain. He slackened in her grip, and his good hand dropped uselessly to the ground. There were little creases next to his eyes that had tightened with pain, and Ciri ran her fingers over them, trying to calm him a bit.

“I’m nearly done with this now, Geralt,” she continued as she shifted back to check on the fluid which was now barely dripping from his abdomen, “It will hurt for a moment, and then I promise it’s over.”

As she spoke, she gripped the stick firmly in her hand and yanked it out of the cut. Geralt arched his back and stared up at her with confused eyes. He never stopped shivering, but had his good hand clenched in the blankets to keep himself from moving. Ciri slapped a bit of spare bandaging from Geralt’s pack down over the oozing wound, and then wrapped some longer pieces around his chest while his back was still arched up. 

“There. Nearly done. I just need to fix your arm. Please don’t move, just a little longer.”

As Ciri worked, she realized she had never felt both so capable and so woefully out of her depth. She was set to this task, set to saving Geralt with whatever skills and strength she could muster. But this was all unfamiliar to her. Yes, she had dressed wounds and helped the medics in Cintra. But she had been the Princess. When there was blood, or death, or any kind of discomfort, she had been whisked away quickly. She had sat and held soldiers’ hands when they were on the mend, when all the ugliness of their wounds were gone. The dying men, the men with festering, stinking wounds were kept well away from her. And then, when Cintra fell, she had seen nothing but death. There was no one to save. No one who would take heart in holding the hand of the Princess of ashes and rubble, of corpses and murdered noblemen. And so, as she watched Geralt trembling with cold and pain, she felt unsure and confused. He might live, if she had done everything correctly. But he might not. And if he died, she did not know if she was the one he would have chosen to have at his side. More privately, she was not sure if she could bear to hold him as the life ebbed from his flesh. She could not bear to watch the life seep from him like nectar from a crushed flower. It was too much, too soon.

Ciri set the arm with subconscious movements, having performed this particular procedure on her own many times. It was a good, clean act. Good for a princess. There was very little blood, just strength, and Ciri had never been short on that. The shoulder proved to be a little more difficult, but Geralt stayed still as she pushed and shoved, and wrapped the whole thing close to his chest. His eyes were closed, his breaths trembling weakly in and out of his chest.

“I’m done now,” she whispered as she sat back on her heels and wiped sweat from her forehead, “Let me wash my hands, and then we can get you warm.”

Geralt’s lips were blue, and his face was pale. Blood ran down his chin from where he had bitten his lip in an attempt to stop the shivering. Ciri ran down to the lake and splashed water quickly over herself before jogging back, wiping her hands on her pants. Geralt trembled on, his free hand working desperately to pull the blankets up higher. Ciri felt lost again. Every instinct in her wanted to be gentle with him, to stroke his hair and reassure him the way she would have done had he been her blood father. But she was unsure if he would accept that kind of treatment, especially from her. He did not seem like the type to desire gentle platitudes. Nervously, she approached him, dragging her own blankets with her. She stank of sweat and blood, and she hoped desperately his enhanced senses would not mind. If she took the time to bathe, Ciri was afraid Geralt might have died of shock and cold by the time she returned.

“Here, I can get that. Stop trying to do more than you should. I know you know better than that.”

Ciri pulled up the blankets, and Geralt settled back a bit, although he still looked desperately cold and uncomfortable. His hand wrapped around her own, and Ciri stared at it, a bit awed, until she realized it was probably only because she was warm. Dragging her blankets a bit closer, she curled up beside him, and wrapped her upper arm gently around his wounded torso, trying to avoid the thick bandages as best she could. He nestled back into her a bit, in a way that would have struck her as heartwarming had she not been so afraid. Ciri had always dreamt of curling up close to her real father, of feeling his warmth. She had never even been able to see her father’s cold corpse, let alone his living body. But now, as she rubbed her free hand up and down Geralt’s back to try to soothe his shivers and warm him a bit, she suddenly wondered if she had been looking far too hard for Duny, when in reality she had been given Geralt. 

“I’m sorry.” She whispered into the night, almost positive there was no way he was coherent enough to hear or understand her. But he shifted a bit, icy hands pressed against her.

“No.” His voice was barely there, and it shook on the first syllable as he tried to force the word past chattering teeth. Ciri rolled to face him. His eyes were barely open, and kept rolling back in his head, at which point he would blink them open forcefully again, trying to keep her in focus.

“What do you mean? This is all my fault. If I hadn’t said it was safe to go up there, none of this would have happened. If I hadn’t failed to check my surroundings before I tried to take that shot, none of this would have happened. I’m a shit excuse for a daughter, and I’m not even yours by blood.”

Having just come to the realization that Geralt was, in every way, the father she needed, Ciri felt that there was no way he could forgive her. That would have been too good to be true. 

Geralt blinked weakly at her, shivering miserably, and licked his lips a few times. He tried a few breaths, but clearly couldn’t fill his injured lungs enough to get out the words he wanted to say. Ciri sighed. It was a last ditch hope to believe he would forgive her stupidity. She could wait until he was well again before hearing the words she so dreaded. That she wasn’t good enough. Not worthy of someone like him.

Geralt looked frustrated, but he seemed too confused and exhausted to be able to hold the thought for long. Ciri touched his hair gently, wondering if it would be the first and last time she would ever be able to do such a thing.

“Are you comfortable?” She asked worriedly.

“Mmmm…trying.” Geralt barely gasped the words out, and Ciri was glad she hadn’t pressed him for an answer. He shook more and more violently as his body tried to warm him, and Ciri found herself holding him tightly to keep him from jostling his other wounds.

“Just try to sleep then. I’ll stay with you until you’re warm. We can worry about the rest in the morning.”

Geralt didn’t answer, but his aching breaths continued for a long while after, signalling that he was still awake and in a great deal of pain. At a loss, Ciri held him through the convulsive shivers and gave him water when she could. Eventually, his breaths evened out, although the shivering didn’t calm much. Ciri flopped onto her back and stared at the stars, desperately afraid of what tomorrow might bring. Unconsciously, she fingered the stone Geralt had given her on the journey. She wondered what would become of it, when Geralt decided she was no longer good enough to be his daughter.


	5. Tremble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri looks after Geralt and wonders how they will get back to the Keep, as well as what her fate will be when they arrive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hi hello! I'm back again with another chapter. All your messages and comments after I posted the last chapter were so sweet and meant the absolute world to me. I'm in the middle of a cross-country move right now (posting this from a hotel), and every email notification I get brings me so much joy. Anyways, I hope you guys really enjoy this chapter, because I loved writing it. Feel free to drop kudos and comments if that's your thang! 
> 
> Thank you as always to the amazing RoachIsJudgingYou for betaing my scribbles.

Everything was shaking. All around her, there was a dense vibration. Ciri sat up with a start, her mind still not entirely free of the avalanche from which they had recently escaped. Terrified, believing that she was still lying with her damp cheek pressed into the cold snow, she barely took in her surroundings until she had stood and nearly broken into a run. It was then that she noticed that there was no longer any shaking. Ciri placed her hands on her knees and tried to catch her breath and reorient herself, now that the original threat of danger seemed to have passed. She remembered the avalanche. The strange presence in her mind. Finding Geralt. Bringing him here. At some point, she must have fallen asleep as she was trying to keep him warm in the chill mountain air. At least it was warmer this morning. She needed to take a look at his wounds and clean them out a bit; the last thing he needed to deal with was an infection while he was still, as the violent trembling showed, fighting off the cold of being buried in the side of a mountain. 

Ciri turned back and saw that it was Geralt who had woken her with his trembling. He had his good arm wrapped protectively around himself, and his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Whether they warded against cold or pain, Ciri did not know. She approached him as loudly as possible, unsure if he was awake or merely sleeping fitfully. When she got close, his hands clenched up a bit, and he cracked an eye.

“Fuck,” his teeth were chattering so hard it was difficult to understand what he was saying, “Ciri, what happened to us?”

Ciri was about to open her mouth to answer when suddenly Geralt’s other eye flew open in alarm and he tried to push himself up on his good arm before groaning miserably as he fell back and his head bounced on the dirt.

“Are you…alright?” He ground out, looking as close to frightened as Ciri had ever seen him. She had to swallow back a slightly hysterical giggle at his words; she had never seen him look so poorly, not even in the aftermath of the ghoul bite that had led him to her side. 

“I’m fine, Geralt,” she said quietly, gently, “You got me out of the way. At great personal cost, may I add. You look awful, and I need you to move a bit so I can take a look at your arm and ribs.”

As soon as Ciri had reassured him that she was well, Geralt’s eyes began to roll back in his head, and he kept on having to blink them violently to stay conscious. He continued shivering, and Ciri wrapped her arms around the least injured parts of his shoulder to try to keep him still and his wounds from being more aggravated.

“Please, stay awake. You’ve slept for long enough, and I need you to tell me about what you’re feeling. I know how to fix wounds, but I need you awake to tell me where and how much it hurts.”

This was not strictly true, but Ciri had been privy to many stories of men falling asleep after receiving many grievous wounds and never waking again. Sometimes, her grandmother had told her, the body simply got too shocked to continue healing, and the person would fade away quietly in the night. Ciri would be damned if she let that happen to Geralt. Not after all they had done. Not after how hard she had worked to save him. How hard she had worked to make him see she was more than a spoilt Princess driven to his arms by destiny.

Geralt blinked his eyes open a little bit more, and Ciri felt a pang of something pass through her chest. He looked absolutely miserable, shivering so convulsively. It was awful, but in an odd way it comforted her. At least now she knew that he could experience the same human fallibilities that she did. Perhaps not all of them, but enough that Ciri felt a little closer to him, a little more like she was able to understand what it was like to inhabit his skin. She would have given anything to erase the differences between them, and she hoped that perhaps this would convince him (and her) that they were not so separate.

Ciri ran her hands down his arm as she thought, checking it over and feeling for any swelling she had missed the previous night, any minute fractures that might have skipped her attention during her earlier panic. Geralt’s breath hissed in and out roughly through his mouth, and his eyes scrunched even tighter shut. Satisfied she had not missed anything on his shoulder and arm, Ciri fashioned a sling out of a bit of bandaging and tied his arm tightly to his already thickly bandaged chest.

“How’s your breathing? Feeling a bit more normal?”

Geralt was still shuddering beneath her hands, and he blinked in a disoriented way. Ciri was feeling more and more confused about why he was still trembling. She had never seen a case of exposure last so long, and Witchers generally ran warmer than humans. Then, as Geralt reached for her hand, a sense of dread swept over her. With barely open eyes, he took her small hand in his own weakened grip and placed it on his forehead. Ciri cursed. She had been a fool, to overlook something so simple. So convinced that his shivering had still been from the long time he had spent buried in the snow, she had failed to check for a fever. It was not terribly bad yet, but there was a definite warmth on his forehead, and the desperate look in his eyes suggested he was already losing his tenuous grip on reality. Her heart nearly burst. She hadn’t even been capable enough to check him for fever, instead leaving him to tell her himself.

“Fuck, Geralt, I’m so sorry. There must be an infected wound, something I missed…does it hurt anywhere still? Is there anything I missed bandaging that you can feel? Or should I just check over myself…oh, gods, shit, how did I miss this?”

Ciri was aware that she was rambling, but her heart was pounding feverishly in her chest and she no longer had the ability to rein in her tongue. Not only had she placed Geralt in a position where he had to save her from a damned avalanche, but now she had not even done the bare minimum to heal him. She felt herself spiralling, losing control of her thoughts. Breaths passed through her lips, hot and heavy, and she barely managed to turn away to puke in the bushes. She was woefully out of her depth, stuck in the middle of the wilderness with a bare bones knowledge of healing that had luckily applied to the situation she had found herself in. But Ciri did not know how to care for infected wounds. That work had been too dirty for a Princess. She had never cured a fever, never drained a wound. The medics had tried to explain the process, but without a visual aid, Ciri found herself floundering.

It was a soft hand placed heavily on her knee that brought her back to reality and out of the heavy, panicky haze she had been caught in. Starting, she stared up and caught Geralt’s amber eyes, fever bright. There was a crease in his brow, though she could not tell if it was from confusion or concern.

“Stop this,” he mumbled, although his lips looked clumsy and awkward as he struggled to form the words, “It…it won’t help. The fever’s not from…a wound. Shock.”

This short explanation seemed to have exerted him incredibly, and he flopped back, lifeless and trembling, on the bedroll. Ciri pulled the blanket back over him, her hands trembling. In many ways, this new revelation made her situation even more desperate. She had heard of men taking a fever from an infected wound. But never from the pure shock of receiving them. She had no idea how to go about treating such an ailment.

“Geralt, please help me. I don’t know what to do for any of this. I can set bones and I fixed your lungs. But I was never allowed to be around sick people or see men who were fevered. Gods, I don’t know what to do.”

Ciri could feel the panic rising inside her chest again, hot and horrible, and nothing she tried could swallow it back. It twisted her mind in knots as she tried to remember what she had been taught, so many years ago in Cintra. But her mind drew a blank. There was nothing, she knew nothing, Geralt was going to die here by her hand and there was absolutely nothing she could do to stop what was happening. 

Geralt had managed to blink his eyes open again as Ciri continued to fall into the trap of her own thoughts. He dragged his good hand up to her cheek and caressed it sloppily. Ciri could feel the heat radiating off of it, and she nearly winced away before she realized that this was Geralt, touching her cheek like she was his daughter. She stilled, nearly holding her breath, hoping the moment wouldn’t dissipate too quickly. Something in her sensed that this was only his fever, making him affectionate, but she didn’t want to lose perhaps her one chance to receive such a gesture from him.

“Just…keep me cool. Witchers…we, we run…hot. And…don’t go. Might be delirious.” His words were still slurring and clumsy, as though he were drunk. Urgently, Ciri nodded. She snatched up her spare shirt from her pack and hurried to the edge of the lake, dunking the shirt in the still surface and creating concussive ripples. The water was icy cold; clearly newly melted off the glaciers that towered high above them. Ciri sighed in relief. Geralt’s skin had gone from being far too cold to far too hot very quickly. Such a transition could not do any good for healing, and she hoped the coldness of the water would reintroduce some kind of equilibrium.

Returning to Geralt’s side, she found his eyes were barely focused, drifting towards his nose before he would blink sloppily, trying to clear them. Ciri slapped the shirt on his forehead, probably a bit too roughly, because he shot up as much as he could and sputtered indignantly, although it was clear his consciousness was rapidly fleeing.

“Sorry, sorry,” Ciri muttered, feeling thoroughly stupid. She felt awkward; having never known what to do around injured men even when she didn’t have such a complicated relationship with them. It was uncomfortable, and made her skin prickle a bit with sweat. She felt hot all over, bothered and frightened and overcome by the constant fear that her mistakes would cost Geralt his life. He settled a bit, once she pushed the shirt up a bit on his head, and wrapped the rest of him tightly in blankets to keep the convulsive shivering from reopening his wounds. A gentle exhale left his lips, and Ciri was left wondrous at how calm he suddenly looked. Of course, it was false. The fever was doing more to steal his consciousness and cares than Ciri wanted to admit. But, it was nice to imagine, just for a moment, that he didn’t carry the weights that he did. She had rarely seen him look so restful.

Once he was well and truly asleep, Ciri peeled back the blankets a little bit and checked over his wounds. Ideally, it would have been better for him to be awake to describe how he felt, but she was glad to have him sleeping while he could. His entire chest was bruised black and blue, but he seemed to be breathing a bit easier, if shallowly. His arm was swollen and bruised as well, and Ciri knew that even with his quick healing it would be weeks before he was well again. It was a severe injury, and when she touched it gently, he shifted in his sleep, forehead crinkling with pain. Ciri left him be, lit a fire, and tried to make some soup with the jerky and broth powder she had brought with her. It would not be very good, but Geralt had to eat something. When he began to toss and turn fitfully, she changed out the cold shirt on his forehead. As nighttime darkened, she shivered as she listened to wolves howling in the valley, crowing over the dead bear they had no doubt come across. The whole mountain range echoed with their shrieks, and Ciri spent most of the night alternating between mopping at Geralt’s forehead, and stalking through the perimeter of their camp with his bow slung over her back, having lost her own crossbow on the glacier. She swayed miserably as the night dragged on, stars dappling the sky above her, but did not sleep. It was the weight of more responsibility than Ciri could ever remember consciously feeling. The need to save another’s life as well as her own was a skill she had yet to master. And now, with the life of someone she cared about above all else in the balance, Ciri was more than aware of her own track record.

\----

Geralt awoke, gasping and alone, and felt a horrific, uncomfortable pain radiating from his left side. It was the pain that only came with broken bones; he knew it well and had felt it many times before. It was hollow, achier than the simple sting of a cut or bone-deep breath of a bruise. But this time it was completely paralyzing. Every time he tried to move himself more than an inch, he could feel his ribs grating together miserably, and it seemed his whole arm was tied with bandages to his chest. Beyond that, he could not get a satisfying breath. It felt like his lungs were folding in on themselves, and every time he tried to breath it stopped short. He kept his eyes closed, unsure, miserable, and more than a little worried. It was damnably cold.

As time passed, he became a bit more aware of his surroundings, though by this point he could tell he was fevered. He trembled and shivered, but it felt detached, as though someone else was experiencing it through him. Distantly, there was a gentle sound of lapping water against a stoney shore, of wind rustling gently in trees, and the faraway rush that one only hears in the mountains; the sound of waterfalls echoing in unexplored valleys and the wind hurtling over razor-sharp cirques. Geralt loved that noise, and he felt oddly amused by how happy it made him feel. He had no memory of how he had come to be in such a state, but it was comforting to know he was in the mountains, surrounded by the wind and the water and all the things he had grown up around in Kaer Morhen. He breathed as deeply as he could, and there was cool freshness on his tongue along with the uncontrollable ache. He shivered tiredly, and debated whether he wanted to open his eyes. He felt so very ill. Perhaps he could go back to sleep. Every instinct in him screamed that he should wake up, get moving, not waste time lying here, but Geralt was so very tired and sore. Someone had come to bind his wounds, he could feel the bandages on his side. Perhaps they would come back and bring him some water, something to soothe his fever with. His skin felt hot and tight, but there was cold in his bones. Feeling very weak, and quite ashamed, he wished the person would come back. It would feel good, just this once, to let someone else do the worrying. To let someone else deal with his aching lungs, his broken ribs. To just be able to rest and not worry about some scavenger coming to seek out his trembling form. 

As he lay, shaking while he tried to stay still and debating the feasibility of opening his eyes even a crack, there was the soft crunching sound of someone’s footsteps coming nearer. Geralt’s heart began to pound aggressively, hammering against his already broken ribs so hard he was afraid they might push right out of his chest. He peeled open his eyes, and the light speared into the centre of his sensitive irises, causing an instantaneous headache. Geralt tried to dilate his pupils to let less light in, but he couldn’t hold his focus enough to do it. Everything was watery and blurry and far too bright; the shape coming towards him was silhouetted and its outline shivered. A rusalka, perhaps? It was definitely a female shape. Geralt scrambled for his swords, every noise of his good hand scratching across the ground grating on his tired ears. The figure suddenly sped up, rushing towards him, and Geralt did not have the strength to push himself away. She reached his side, and he went limp the moment a slender arm snaked around his back. It was gentle, not the many-nailed grip of a rusalka or the tempting touch of a vodyanoy. No, he recognized these hands, now he could feel them on him. He recognized the pattern of breathing and the heartbeat he could feel when it came in contact with his skin. Ciri? Why was Ciri here? Had she accompanied him on a hunt? Had they been attacked on the road? Geralt slumped into her, exhausted and in pain. He hadn’t the energy to ask her, and he was embarrassed by it, embarrassed by the way he let his head flop against her shoulder and the way he sighed with relief when she moved in behind him, propping him up and easing his breathing a bit. His lungs were so sore, and they felt almost swollen, especially the left one. It was an odd sensation, not one he could remember experiencing before.

Ciri seemed to sense that he had questions, because she started talking to him gently once he had settled sleepily in the bony curve of her shoulder. Her hands were busy, he noticed, checking his forehead for fever and peeling back bandages a little bit, but he tried to focus on the vibrations of speech coming from her chest instead of the sting of flesh and sticky blood being ripped apart.

“You’ve been asleep for a long time, I was so worried. You’ve still a fever, I think as soon as we can we should get you on Roach and try to make our way back to Kaer Morhen. I don’t want to try to heal you out here in the wilds and only make it worse. Oh, Geralt, I know nothing about this. I can’t fix it, and it’s all my fault.”

Ciri sounded almost tearful, and Geralt lifted a clumsy, hot hand and placed it on her other shoulder. This felt so wrong, he thought. He should be the one holding her and telling her it would be alright. He was, after all, the closest thing she had to a father. Distractedly, he realized he had not held her since finding her again at Sodden. He simply had not thought to. But now, hearing how broken and fearful she sounded, he felt he had made a terrible mistake. She sounded so afraid, and so guilty.

“Ciri…” he ground out, a rasping cough escaping his lungs and causing them to pinch uncomfortably in a way he usually associated with surgical procedures, “What…what happened?”

She started a bit, seemingly unaware that he had woken at all. His sight was still blurry, and it seemed his eyes had fallen shut without his permission, but Geralt felt the slight cant in her shoulders that suggested that she was looking down at him now instead of straight forwards.

“Don’t…don’t you remember?” Ciri sounded deathly afraid, and Geralt allowed a sloppy smile to spread across his face. He felt hot, like butter left out in the sun on a summer’s day. Perhaps he would simply melt away. But no, that didn’t make sense. It seemed he was worse off than he thought. His usable arm was trembling, the muscles cramping tiredly. He shook his head, trying to ignore the inordinately large amount of effort it took to lift it back to the centre after he allowed it to flop to one side.

“Ciri…’ve got a fever. Feel like my head is…cooking. Like…venison.” Geralt felt fairly satisfied with this answer as to why he couldn’t remember, but Ciri’s grip tightened fearfully.

“Oh, Geralt, you’re so ill. I don’t know what to do. There was an avalanche, remember? You…you saved me, pushed me out of the way. I dug you out of the snow a while later, and your whole left side was crushed, and you were so, so cold. I brought you back to camp and I think I’ve gotten the worst of your wounds, but you’re very sick and feverish, and I’m not sure how to help you.”

Ciri’s voice was trembling with guilt, and Geralt finally understood why she seemed so guilty, although he could not quite make sense of it in his hot, miserable head. He palmed his forehead before moving his shaking hand down to wrap himself up, although it did little to help with the cold, and made his ribs ache. He coughed a bit as he tried to force a few more words out. There was a disconnect between his mouth and his brain; he couldn’t form the words on his hot tongue. After a few coughs and spluttering attempts, he managed a truncated form of the message he wanted to get across to Ciri.

“Ciri…don’t blame yourself. ’S stupid. Wouldn’t have…” here he stopped and coughed convulsively, the fever pounding on his head and making him shiver, “c-come after you…’f I didn’t want to.”

Geralt felt Ciri’s arms tighten around him, and he tried to suppress the groan as he felt the broken ribs in his lefthand side grate together. Something deep within him told him not to push her off, not to ask her to back away. That this was important, although he was currently too sick and miserable to understand why that might be.

After a few moments, Ciri seemed to remember herself and loosened her grip with an exasperated sigh.

“If I was hurting you, you should have told me to stop. Here, let me get you something cold to drink and then I’ll get you something for the pain. I know you have a little milk of the poppy in your bags, and as much as you’ll deny it I think you need it right now.”

Geralt hadn’t particularly been planning on denying it. He felt absolutely awful; as though he were on the verge of rest but every time he tried to nod off a particularly strong burst of feverish chills or aching pain would waken him again. He desperately wanted to sleep. It was rare when he craved being drugged into oblivion, but currently he was unable to even draw breath without pain, and he was so tired and hot and ill. He swallowed a bit, convulsively, and tried to keep from throwing up as Ciri spilled a little cold water into his mouth. Most of it ran out; his gag reflex preventing him from drinking as much as he wanted. Then, Geralt felt a slight shift, and realized that Ciri was laying him back down on the ground. Belatedly, he realized that the water left a sweet coating on his mouth. She must have laced it with milk of the poppy, he thought sleepily. Mostly delirious already, he did notice a marked increase in the dizziness he felt.

“Just go to sleep,” Ciri sounded more like she was pleading, and Geralt was too far gone to be concerned about why she was so frightened anymore, “When you’re a bit better, we’ll get you back home to Kaer Morhen, I promise. I won’t fail you.”

Everything was bleeding together in front of his eyes, which struck Geralt as odd because his eyes were most definitely closed. He squeezed them tighter, but that only increased the pounding in his head. Shifting uncomfortably, he sensed his consciousness fleeing him quickly. He clumsily wrapped his good arm around his broken ribs; their grinding pain suggested they would need some form of support while he slept. As he did so, the sound of the lake lapping on the shore and the wind flying high above and Ciri’s frightened heartbeat and breathing melded together into a deafening cacophony. The last thing Geralt was aware of before he drifted away was an overwhelming need to cover his ears and flee the noise that surrounded him.

\----

Even once Ciri felt Geralt’s body go slack, his breaths continued on shakily, lungs unable to suck in enough air to sustain him properly. She slumped, exhausted, and tried to ignore the horrific rasping noises. It was nigh on noon, and she was tired and hungry. There was a bit of food left, but the two of them had packed light, having planned on taking down several large animals by now. If she wanted them to survive, Ciri knew she would need to either set off for Kaer Morhen or go hunting soon. Her crossbow was gone, lost in the wreckage of the avalanche, and she was a poor shot with a bow, even one as finely made as Geralt’s. On the opposite hand, though, Geralt was in no condition to even attempt sitting on Roach, let alone navigate the treacherous pass pathways with her. Ciri was in a bind, and she felt almost as lost and indecisive as she had in the days following the fall of Cintra. At least then she had had a goal, a singular destination to set her mind to. Now, faced with impossible choices, she felt herself beginning to crumble. The pressure of not allowing another member of her dwindling family to die was too much. It made her want to run, want to clutch her father surprise to her chest and flee deep into the wilderness where she would never had to face such decisions again. It seemed she was hunted everywhere these days, even when she was sure she would get some peace.

Even though she knew Geralt would not wake, she moved him ever so carefully off her knees and onto the rolled up shirts she had folded hastily into a pillow. Every time she touched him, she felt afraid to breathe. It was as if a breath would be enough to push him into death’s arms. He shifted his head a bit, dark brows pushing together in a frown, and Ciri murmured some nonsense in his ear before standing. Her legs and hips cracked and popped under the strain, and she stumbled to a tree that looked strong enough to support her weight. Roach and Aerra, who were picketed nearby, watched her concernedly. 

“Sweet Roach,” she smiled, a watery thing, and approached them, feeling a bit guilty about her lack of attention towards them after they had helped her save Geralt’s life, “You’ve been so good. Just a little longer now, and we’ll get him home.”

Ciri offered a handful of oats to each horse; the brush was too scarce at this altitude to turn them out and let them graze on their own. They nibbled it gently, their large, velvety lips enclosing her hands with warmth and moisture. Ciri sighed and closed her eyes, trying to imagine she was in the pastures of Kaer Morhen. At some point, she had stopped daydreaming of being at home in Cintra, and started dreaming of being at home in the Keep. She wondered when it had switched, and she felt a small sense of loss. Cintra felt so far away from who she was now. She wondered if it would ever reclaim its place as her home. A deep, locked-away part of her knew it would not. 

As Roach and Aerra ate, Ciri sat down and leaned with her back against a tree, eating one of the last apples she had been able to dig out of her bag. It had been rotting, but her stomach had long since grown accustomed to less than ideal food. She had cut away the blackened portions.

Eventually, Roach meandered over to her and nose her gently. Ciri looked up into her huge, liquid brown eyes. They stared down concernedly. She snorted and swung her nose in Geralt’s direction.

“I know you miss him. I’m trying my best to get him better, so we can take him home. I’m doing my best not to let him down.”

Roach snorted again and bumped her nose into Ciri’s forehead. Ciri allowed herself a small smile. Roach was smarter than most people gave horses credit for. She left her nose pressed against Ciri’s forehead for a while, the warmth of her breath allowing travelling between the two of them, reinvigorating and reassuring. When she finally broke the contact, Ciri felt refreshed and determined. Hopelessness and fear would do them no good now, she thought. She had to get Geralt back to Kaer Morhen, and in order to do that she would have to get his fever down and find a way to stabilize his broken bones for travelling. That was all she needed to focus on. Her one task. Just like after the fall of Cintra. One task, one thing to accomplish and then she would have them both safe again. It was a reassuring thought.

Pushing herself off the ground, Ciri swung her arms slowly while she thought. She knew very little about illness and fevers, and all that she had learned had been through lessons, not direct observation. As someone who learned primarily through doing, Ciri struggled to remember more than general outlines. But she knew that the information was buried in her mind, somewhere. She just had to discover where it was locked away again.

Ciri meandered her way back over to Geralt. He was sleeping as soundly as could be expected. He looked very sick; his face was pale and beaded with sweat, and he would often frown in discomfort when the fever made him twitch helplessly. His heavily injured side kept shifting, like he was subconsciously trying to make himself more comfortable. Every time he did so, though, he would waken a little bit. His good hand would fist tightly in the blankets. Ciri felt a little pain shoot through her stomach. Geralt had always been invulnerable. Even when he was wounded when they had met, he had taken care of himself, hidden away his wounds from her sight. Now, seeing him too weakened to even attempt to hide his pain from her, it made Ciri feel slightly ill. This was not supposed to be how this trip ended. Even though her mind was set on the task of getting Geralt home, there was still guilt settled deep in her gut. Every time he shifted, she only felt worse. He looked absolutely miserable.

Making sure he was tucked under enough blankets and that there was a fresh cool cloth on his forehead, Ciri retreated to sit with her back pressed against one of the scrubby trees. She had tried meditating so many times in the past, and it had never panned out. Her mind would spread in a thousand directions, occupied by so many thoughts there was no way she could rein them in. Usually, her meditation sessions ended unfortunately and tumultuously, much to Ciri’s embarrassment.

The wind howled up the steep slope, unbalancing Ciri from the rock she was sitting on and nearly causing her to topple backwards. Her eyes flew open and she cursed violently, slapping a hand behind her and gripping onto a small ledge to keep herself upright. Next to her, Eskel remained the picture of serenity. Cross-legged, perfectly balanced, completely undistracted. Ciri doubted that he had even noticed her nearly become violently reacquainted with the ground. Shaking her head frustratedly, Ciri tried to regain her position. Legs crossed, like Eskel. Back perfectly straight. It was so uncomfortable. She didn’t know how the Witchers held such a position for hours on end, especially when they were meditating to recover from an injury. It was impossible for her, even for the short thirty minutes stretches Eskel had recommended. 

Ciri tried to let her eyes slip shut naturally, but in the end she ended up forcing them closed. It was hard for her to shut her eyes outside since she had fled from Cintra. She felt that everywhere she went, she had to keep one eye open, alert for danger. As soon as her eyes were closed, visions of Cintra flashed before them. Burning buildings, screaming knights. Being pursued by a man with a winged helmet, sword raised. When he opened his mouth, flames shot forth from it. He wanted to snatch her up, to hold her…

Then, the merchants in the refugee camp. Dead because of her, their eyes open and glazed, children who died for a noble girl they hated, without even realizing she was among them. When she breathed, Ciri could smell their blood, the scent of iron heavy on her nostrils. She could hear their screams in the whispers of the wind, begging for mercy. Mercy she could have delivered if she had handed herself over to Nilfgaard. Mercy she had chosen to deny them. A scream began to build deep within her chest. It was a wild, reckless thing, beyond Ciri’s control. When she released it, her eyes flew open and she tumbled backwards, off the rock where she and Eskel were sitting, her own anguished cry ringing chaotically in her ears. Eskel had leapt up as well, and was casting Aard before he even realized what he was doing. The magical blast shoved a large tree that had been knocked down out of the way of the rock. Ciri landed on her back in the dirt with a dusty thud, the air knocked from her lungs. Ozone crackled in her mouth and hands. She panted and watched blearily as Eskel made his way down to her.

“What happened?” He asked concernedly, eyes open and worried in a way that Ciri had not come to associate with Witchers until she had arrived at the Keep, “I haven’t seen you lose control like that in months. Did you try to release your thoughts like I told you to, and just focus on your purpose?”

Ciri groaned and wiped away the blood that was dripping from her left nostril. She felt utterly drained, like a cup of ale that had been dumped carelessly into a stream.

“That’s the problem,” she rasped, trying to prop herself up on her elbows, “My purpose is my problem. My purpose got a camp full of innocent people killed. It got my grandmother and my guards and some of my closest friends killed. I can’t think about it without…without smelling their blood. Hearing their screams.”

Eskel lowered himself to the dirt next to her and they sat like that for a long while, until a dragonfly that had been buzzing nearby seemed to accept them as permanent fixtures in its environment and came to settle on Ciri’s knee. She pressed her finger under its legs and lifted it, entranced by its beautiful, jewel-like eyes.

“Dragonfly larvae are hideous,” Eskel finally said at length, and Ciri shot him a look, thinking this was perhaps the stupidest beginning of a conversation she had ever heard, “They are. They look a bit like grubs, but they swim in the water, and have these long grasping legs, and enormous jaws that hurt like the devil if they bite you. They’re built to kill, nothing else. And when they molt and become dragonflies, that instinct and ability doesn’t just leave them. But they aren’t as aggressive anymore. They learn what’s worth their energy to kill and what isn’t. That’s why that one isn’t biting you, although it very easily could. It’s grown up. Learned from its mistakes. And it’s beautiful, wouldn’t you say?”

Ciri nodded, feeling a bit confused. She had never heard Geralt say anything was beautiful. In fact, she would have been shocked if the word had even escaped his lips. Witchers, as she had experienced them, did not see beauty in the same way humans did. Except Eskel, it seemed. It made Ciri want to wrap her arms around him. It had been a long time since she had felt a burst of such open humanity, living as she did in a world of mutants and monsters.

“When the dragonfly is small, it’s ugly and untamed. It attacks anything that happens to cross its path. But if the young dragonfly can manage to survive this time, it learns. It learns to use its abilities in an appropriate way. And it becomes more beautiful and tranquil for it. Do you see?”

Ciri wasn’t quite sure that she did, but she nodded anyways. It would not do to disappoint Eskel. 

He didn’t ask her to meditate again after that. They didn’t return to the rock, although Ciri did see him setting out there by himself quite regularly. Left to her own devices, Ciri gave up the practice entirely. She hated seeing the dead faces of her loved ones every time she closed her eyes. She hated the way any attempt at meditation left the flavour of ozone in her mouth. The ghosts that haunted her subconscious remained there, locked away, unvisited. She had intended for them to remain there for the rest of her youth, until she was old enough to understand and engage with them.

Now, with her back straight and her posture perfectly aligned with the back of the tree, Ciri felt an enormous amount of trepidation. This wasn’t a training exercise anymore. This wasn’t a situation in which she could throw up her hands and give up. Geralt depended on her accessing her memories, engaging with them. It was no longer a question of her readiness. It was a question of necessity. 

Ciri took the dragonfly back with her when she and Eskel returned from the rock that final time. It stayed on her hand, quite content to rest in the sun. She had expected it to fly away when they reached the shady walls of the Keep, but it did not. She had carried it with her to the library, where she had sought out and opened a book on natural history, determined to learn more about it. There had been no dragonflies in Cintra, and she was fascinated.

As she read, Ciri didn’t notice Geralt’s soft footsteps padding up behind her. When he pulled up a chair next to hers with an audible scrape, she nearly leapt out of her skin. The dragonfly, sufficiently jostled, took to the air and escaped out the nearest open window. Despite herself, Ciri shot Geralt an irritated look. He was unaffected. They sat there for a while, the only noise the sifting of the parchment every time Ciri turned a page. Eventually, when Ciri no longer felt so irritated about the abrupt departure of the dragonfly, she glanced up.

“Geralt?”

“Hmmm.”

“Do you know anything about dragonflies? Eskel and I were talking about them today.”

Geralt cocked his head, which Ciri interpreted as an invitation for her to continue.

“This book says that dragonflies mature from larvae that live in lakes and streams into adults in the late summer. But the dragonfly I caught today was an adult, and it’s barely even spring. Why would something recorded in a book that I’ve seen before, that they use to teach natural order and biology at the most prestigious schools in Cintra, say something that’s so clearly incorrect? Why hasn’t anyone fixed it?”

“It’s not.”

“What?”

“It’s not incorrect.”

By this point, Ciri was beginning to feel very frustrated. Getting answers from Geralt was like pulling teeth from a stubborn mare. She propped her chin on her hand and stared daggers at him until he exhaled irritably through his nose. She recognized this sign as his preparing himself to explain something he really wished he didn’t have to.

“In most parts of the continent, that book is correct. But, in the mountains, it’s more advantageous for the dragonfly to mature sooner, since the species of insects at this altitude have adapted to the cold and also mature sooner. If it wants to survive, the dragonfly has to keep up with its prey. Otherwise, it would starve. Now, get your hand off your chin and stop gaping at me like that.”

“Oh.” Ciri adjusted her position.

“Nature is more intelligent than most people give it credit for. When something needs to learn and grow early, nature will get the job done, or allow its subject to die trying.”

A flash of something haunted flashed across Geralt’s eyes, and he stood so abruptly his chair nearly tipped right over. Ciri did not see him for the rest of the night.

Ciri allowed her eyes to drift slowly closed. And a familiar scene greeted her. The cold dead eyes of Calanthe, the Lioness of Cintra, stared up at her. Her hair was greasy, tangled, and she was wearing the grey shirt Ciri had last seen her in, instead of her usual finery. Her mouth gaped a bit, and her eyes were so misted over that Ciri could not make out her irises anymore. A scream rose in her throat. Her hand scrabbled in the dirt, searching for purchase, anything to anchor her to the real world. She felt like she was falling, tumbling into those misty eyes that held nothing but blame and hurt. They whispered that it was her fault, all of it. And Ciri had nowhere to go but down.

Then, she breathed. She resurfaced, took a breath, like she had been swimming deep within a lake. 

“No.” She said the words out loud, “I’m not here for you. I don’t need you, grandmother. I don’t need anger or fear to access my chaos. And I don’t need my chaos right now, regardless. I’m not here for you.”

Calanthe’s misty eyes snapped shut. And Ciri turned away, ventured into the part of her subconscious for which she had come.

\----

When Ciri resurfaced from within her mind, there was no longer sunlight pressing on her eyes. When she opened them, they were met with star-sprinkled darkness. Every limb in her body was stiff. She stretched slowly, achingly, feeling her joints pop. She felt more at peace than she had for days. The last time she had felt this way, was when she and Geralt had been crouched on the rocks, directly before the avalanche, when he had been teasing her. The thought brought a small smile to her face. She was armed with information, now. She would save him. Save him and bring him home.

Standing painfully, Ciri made her way over to where she had left Geralt and palmed his forehead gently. He was still burning hot, and clearly in the grip of a nightmare. Ciri felt a lump of guilt settle in her chest for having left him nearly alone for so long, but she brushed it aside. Guilt would not help either of them now.

Geralt groaned a little, and muttered something that was so slurred Ciri could not make it out. She wrapped her small hand around his good shoulder and shook it as gently as she could. His forehead wrinkled and he groaned more loudly.

“Fuck’n hurts…leave me ‘lone.”

“Geralt, it’s me, Ciri. You were dreaming, you need to wake up now. You’re ill, and I need you to have something to eat and drink before you fall back asleep. Are you cold?”

Geralt took nearly a minute to process this information, his eyes blinked barely open. They kept sliding shut, at which point Ciri would squeeze his shoulder again to wake him up. He looked awful, skin pale as fine paper and beaded with sweat. He was shivering, although less violently now than before, but his throat was working in a way that suggested he was nauseated, although Ciri couldn’t tell if it was from shock or pain.

“‘M cold. Not hungry.”

“Here, move your arm a little, I want to check your bandages, and then I’ll build up the fire and bring you another blanket.”

Geralt didn’t move his arm, but he didn’t outrightly object when Ciri did it for him. Unwrapping the bandages, all Ciri could see was a tapestry of bruising. She was surprised he hadn’t cried out when she had moved him. She checked to make sure the small wound from where she had drained his lungs was healing well, and then bound his whole side tightly again. Geralt did groan at this, rolling weakly away from her, but this only caused him more pain.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri whispered, “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Geralt forced his eyes open then, and tried to get them to focus on hers. He only succeeded in staring hazily a little over her left shoulder, but Ciri thought it best not to mention this.

“I know,” he rasped, his facing going a shade more green, “It’s…s’alright. Just…get me home. Trust you.”

Ciri felt tears beginning to prick at the corners of her eyes, and she laid her head gently on the slightly less bruised part of his chest. Geralt wrapped his good hand around her, and they stayed that way for a long while, Ciri staring up at the stars as Geralt’s breath rasped away harshly underneath her. She was hardly even aware she had been crying quietly when Geralt suddenly spasmed and she found herself hurriedly brushing away tears as she wrapped a supporting arm around his back and held his hair out of his face as he vomited.

“Shhh,” she tried to soothe, although she felt rather idiotic, “You’re alright, I’ll get you home, just try to rest.”

Geralt slumped back against her, panting and groaning simultaneously. Ciri brushed a bit of spit and stomach acid of his chin, and held him close to her. He looked miserable, and she held him tightly to try to quell his shivers. He rested his head back against her shoulder, and Ciri grabbed a nearby water skin and poured some between his parted lips.

“Fuck…just going to make me sick again.” Geralt’s words were a bit less slurred now, a bit more coherent. 

“Better than drying up and turning into a prune.”

Geralt cracked a fever-bright eye and shot Ciri a murderous look, but there was a slight, sloppy smile forming on his face as well. He elbowed her in the gut with his good arm.

“I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. Let’s get you lying back down, and then I’ll build up the fire and see if we can’t get you warmed up as well. My grandmother used to talk about sweating out fevers. I don’t know if it’ll work, but it’s worth a try if it can get us home faster.”

Geralt rolled his head weakly on Ciri’s shoulder, reaching up to fuss with the bandages on his shoulder before Ciri swatted his hand away.

“Gods, you’re insufferable. I’m surprised you’ve lasted as long as you have alone in the wilds. You’d probably be stumbling through the woods in a fevered haze by now without me.”

Ciri never would have dared to say such a thing if Geralt had been in his right mind, but as it was, she suspected he probably wouldn’t remember much of this anyways. From her own memories of fevers, Ciri knew it was the feelings that stayed with you, while the individual experiences did not. If she could make Geralt feel something other than miserable, then perhaps that feeling would stay with him when he was well again. Ciri desperately didn’t want to lose the fondness he had begun expressing for her when they got back to the Keep. She hoped it wasn’t simply feverish delirium that was making him behave the way he was.

Trying to move him as gently as possible so as not to jostle his ribs and arm, Ciri eased Geralt back onto the ground. He pressed his eyelids together in pain at the movement, and cursed under his breath, which Ciri pretended not to hear. The moment he was on his back, though, his raspy breaths increased in cadence and difficulty.

“Are you alright?”

“‘M chest…it’s heavy.”

Ciri hurried back to his side and propped him up on a piece of wood she had originally intended for the fire, folding a shirt over top of it, figuring he was probably uncomfortable enough without lying on naked wood. He sighed a bit, clearly relieved for the support on his back and neck. Ciri took the opportunity to wrap a blanket around him while he was still aware enough to tell her if it hurt. He looked to be drifting somewhere between wakefulness and sleep, slipping fitfully in and out of rest. Ciri brushed some silver hair from his brow, dyed brown with sweat. His hair was in disarray, greasy and sweaty and stuck to his face and neck.

“Can I braid it for you? Just to get it off your neck. You look hot.”

Geralt blinked up at her, clearly confused, and touched his hair with a shaky, weak hand.

“It’s so hot, Ciri. Go get some water. You’ll get de..." he trailed off here, confused mind unable to come up with the word, and then settled, "sick.”

Ciri figured this was probably as close to consent as she was going to get, and she sat at the back of Geralt’s head, cradling it a bit between her two hands. He sighed with relief and pressed his head back into her palms. Perhaps it was cool on his feverish skin. Splitting the silver hair into three equal strands, and wringing a bit of sweat out of it, Ciri wove Geralt’s hair deftly into a braid, tying it off with the leather headband he normally wore. She draped it over his shoulder when she was done, and checked his forehead. It was slick with sweat, and Geralt’s breath was coming faster and faster, like a overheated wolfhound. Ciri knew if she could just get Geralt to sweat enough, his body would cool him down naturally. But the process was looking less and less appealing all the time. Ciri had never seen it in practice, never seen how much discomfort it caused the person. Geralt was already shifting and moaning a little, clumsily trying to wipe the sweat from his forehead. A weak hand tried to push the blankets down, but with little success. 

Building a small fire up with practiced ease, Ciri struck the flint and let it crackle as she settled back at Geralt’s head.

“Fuck…too hot. Please…stop.”

Ciri swallowed back a small sob and cradled Geralt’s head in her hands. She dripped a little of the cool lake water between his lips, and he sought it out, licking his cracked lips. He looked so sick, so miserable, trembling and sweating. Ciri wished more than anything that she could put an end to this.

“Just a little while longer. Just try to sleep through it, I’ve got you. Then, when your fever’s down, we’ll get you home and you can rest easier.”

Geralt didn’t open his eyes. His fever was peaking, and he was probably too far gone to hear her. But Ciri kept running her hands through his hair, whispering softly and singing Cintran lullabies that her grandmother had sung to her, late into the morning. A vague memory surfaced, as she floated, singing while half asleep. The memory of a green-eyed woman with pale hair, and a man with curly brown hair, singing her the same songs and touching her face. Ciri wondered who they were. As she brushed sweat off of Geralt’s brow and tried to calm his shivers, their faces in her memory melded with Geralt’s living, sickly face before her.


	6. Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri tries to get Geralt back to Kaer Morhen, and realizes a crucial error has been made. As the walls of the keep encroach on her, Ciri tries to keep her guilt at bay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi hey hello!! I'm back with another update! Let me just say to start off that it's my favourite thing when a story starts to gain a little traction, especially when it's a massive world building effort like this one. Seeing all your reviews and kudos after I update a new chapter makes me so happy, and makes me feel a bit less like my writing is shouting into the endless void of the internet. So thank you! Honestly, I have a terrible track record with starting stories and then never completing them, but since I started writing here I haven't felt that way because I can't let you guys down. Anyways, I digress! Enjoy the new chapter, take care of yourselves, and stay safe out there. Next week's update may be a bit delayed, but I'll do my best to get it out to ya on time!

It was another sleepless night for Ciri. Every time she felt as though she might doze off, something would rouse her. Her heart was pounding anxiously in her chest, and every sound or shift of the night brought her gasping back to wakefulness. The fire rustled and crackled on, and her hands pressed idly into Geralt’s forehead as sweat poured off him. He would awaken occasionally, but he had no idea where he was or what was happening. Several times, he had asked Ciri to stop, to leave him in peace. A few times, he had called out for women. Renfri, and Yennefer. He seemed set on apologizing to both of them, asking over and over again for them to forgive him. Ciri felt like she had no right when she bent close to his ear and whispered that he was forgiven, that all was well, and that he should go back to sleep. But it seemed to calm him a bit; he would subside from muttering and groaning weakly into a fitful sleep where he would toss and turn miserably, every movement pulling the lines of pain taut around his eyes. His face was ashen, and his grip was now so weak that he could no longer even clench the blankets to his chest. Ciri had taken both of his hands in her own when it became clear that no amount of bathing his brow would clear the sweat dripping off it. They lay, slightly open, in Ciri’s much smaller hands. Occasionally, Geralt’s fingers would twitch and clench, usually when he roused a bit. Otherwise, they lay, limp and sweaty, and Ciri rubbed circles on the callouses she herself was beginning to develop. The callouses of a sword fighter. They were becoming matched blades, she realized. The deadly, efficient sword, and the small, quick dagger. The thought made Ciri feel empowered. The quick dagger to the sword of Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf, could get herself through anything. She was built to survive. And that was exactly what Ciri intended to do.

The sun was making its way up between the peaks when Ciri looked up from smoothing her fingers across Geralt’s. There was a dusty, early morning glow in the air, and it already smelled like the makings of a hot day. Bees buzzed in the devil’s paintbrush that had found purchase in the cracks of rock by the lakeside. There were a few tiny pink orchids as well, which Ciri had failed to notice. They were smaller than the orchids she and Geralt had encountered on their ride up to the pass, but Ciri thought they were all the more beautiful for it. The flowers were no bigger than her pinky nail. That something so tiny and delicate could survive in such a barren, windswept place filled her with awe.

As the sun began ascending further, Ciri realized she had no more time for admiring the landscape. The day promised to be hot, and she could feel that Geralt’s fever was beginning to break. The sweat that covered his skin was cooling him down slower than she had anticipated, though, and she quickly pulled back the blankets to try to let the breeze aid her in her task. His shirt, originally white, was grey with sweat, and the moment the breeze hit his bare skin he began to shiver. His eyes flickered open.

“It’s been a while,” Ciri allowed herself a small smile, feeling relieved to see him looking a bit more aware, “How are you feeling?”

Geralt frowned. He looked uncomfortable, and his teeth were chattering again.

“…Confused. And sick.”

This was by far the most coherent answer Ciri had received from him in a while, and it made her breathe a deep sigh of relief. There was, however, a part of her that was also a bit nervous now that he was a bit more lucid. While he might have had the propensity to be forgiving when he was well out of his mind with fever, his memories of what had happened on the mountain would surely return to him as he recovered. Ciri did not think her mistakes would be so easily forgiven once he remembered exactly what she had done. She tried to steel herself. The closeness they had shared since she had brought him back, as near to a father-daughter bond that Ciri had ever experienced, would probably be short lived now. Geralt was not a man who forgave needless stupidity easily. 

“At least you’re well enough to tell me so,” she said, though her voice sounded a bit more watery than she would have liked, “Just try to rest a bit for now. You’ve been very sick, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to eat or drink anything quite yet. Wait until you’re less nauseous.”

Geralt, who was looking more and more pale with every moment, nodded as his throat worked furiously. Ciri touched his braid sympathetically, and realized his head was still settled on her lap. The fire needed putting out before the wind scattered the coals every which way.

“I’m going to move your head a bit so I can pour water on the fire. I’ll be right back.”

Geralt clamped his mouth firmly shut as Ciri slipped out from underneath him as gently as possible. He looked on the edge of being sick, and Ciri watched him for a moment to make sure he didn’t choke before turning to the fire. Steam rose from it as she poured water on top of the coals and dumped them into the lake. Then, she returned to their saddlebags and grabbed an apple for herself and some bread for Geralt, should he feel well enough to eat. They were nearly out of food. Ciri needed to get them back to the keep before they ran out and she was too weakened to guide them through the treacherous pass. They were quickly running out of time. As she sank her teeth into the apple, which was quite leathery from days spent stuffed in the bottom of a saddlebag, Roach and Aerra whiskered softly at her. 

“At least you’re well taken care of up here,” she smiled, approaching the two of them and petting their velvety noses, “Plenty of grass and such. I know I can trust you to get us home.”

Roach bumped Ciri’s forehead, and she planted kisses on both of the horses’ noses before picking her way through the rocks and scrubby grass back to the camp. Spending time with the horses always put her in a better mood. It quelled the nervousness that was rolling in her gut for when Geralt was feeling up to having a conversation about what had happened on the mountain. Ciri wasn’t sure she could take his rejection, after finally having found little paths through which she could wend her way into his life.

Back at the camp, Geralt was poking tiredly at the bandages on his shoulder. There were dark circles under his eyes, and he looked up at Ciri with such a weight of exhaustion she nearly felt bowled over by it herself. 

“Did…did you set this?”

“Yes. Does it hurt? Is something wrong?”

Geralt seemed to relax at this, all the air whooshing out of his damaged lungs. He slumped back even more.

“No…’s good. Wondered who did it.”

Ciri settled next to him and palmed his forehead. It was cool, though he was drenched in sweat, creating a sticky film over his skin.

“Princesses do learn some useful skills besides dancing and embroidery, you know.”

Geralt snorted.

“You…embroidering?”

“My grandmother forced every stitch out of me. There are several hatefully embroidered tapestries that thankfully fell with Cintra.”

A little smile creased Geralt’s face, which surprised Ciri since he was no longer fevered. It was a painful joke, but it made her giggle a little as well. She had memories of flaming arguments between herself and her grandmother regarding what was proper and ladylike, and what skills were actually useful. As a young girl, Ciri had been vehemently against any activities she did not believe were either amusing or practical. Somewhere along the way, those flaming arguments had turned into fond memories. It surprised her a little to admit to this.

“Are you comfortable? Is there anything I should be doing besides shutting up and letting you sleep?”

There was no answer, and Ciri turned to see that Geralt had, in fact, fallen asleep. She hadn’t noticed before, but her hand was loosely entangled in his own. It was a little odd, she thought. After all, he was no longer feverish or hypothermic. Almost afraid to breathe, she settled next to him, careful not to jostle the hand that was loosely looped with his. A small spark of hope blossomed in her stomach. Perhaps he didn’t blame her for this whole situation in the way that she had expected him to. 

They passed most of the morning and early afternoon just resting. Ciri drifted between sleep and wakefulness for that time as well. She was horrendously exhausted, and the strange, undiscovered power the snow spirit had left her with had brought with it an aching tiredness and confusion. Something was churning deep within her, but she could not access it. She tried for a while, journeying down and taking inventory of her body and her mind, but it was buried too deep, under lock and key. The spirit had told her to wait. And as much as it pained her to do so, Ciri felt that these were instructions that must be obeyed. Wait for Tor Lara, it had said. And, whatever that meant, Ciri would wait to find it. She eventually fell into an uneasy rest, curled so her face was close to Geralt’s, his warm breath misting over her cheeks.

When she found her way peacefully back awake, the sun was near its zenith, and the hot quiet of noon had fallen over the valley. Even the lake had stopped its lapping at the shore. The wind was still and silent, and Ciri felt that if she was quiet enough, she would be able to listen to the plants absorbing the energy of the high, hot sun. After a moment of basking in the comforting warmth, Ciri blinked her eyes open, and saw that Geralt was doing the same. He looked groggy; his eyes were dull and tired and he groaned a little bit as he worked his way back to consciousness. A little pang of worry that had become Ciri’s constant companion over the last few days resurfaced in her chest. She was used to Geralt healing quickly. She supposed, though, that with the severity of his wounds, this was probably as fast as could be expected. 

Ciri rolled onto her back while Geralt worked his way back to full consciousness, knowing it would probably make him uncomfortable to be watched when he wasn’t yet fully awake. Their hands were still entwined, and there was a film of cold sweat on Geralt’s hand. Clearly, he was still recovering from his fever, even though it was broken.

“You get some rest?” He finally asked her, sounding more coherent than he had in days, more foggy from sleep than from sickness. Ciri offered him a small smile.

“More than enough. I didn’t realize how tired I was.”

“That’s usually the way.”

Ciri observed that Geralt was still breathing shallowly, but that he was no longer rasping and wincing with every breath. 

“How are you? Any changes I should know about?”

“Less sick. My ankle hurts to hell again. Easier to breathe.”

Ciri almost whacked herself in the head. In the urgency of treating his other wounds, she had forgotten about the long-broken ankle that had been troubling him prior to the avalanche. It probably hadn’t been re-bandaged since the morning they had left to hunt. In fact, Ciri hadn’t even taken off Geralt’s boots. Likely the bandage had loosened so much the ankle was swelling horrifically. Poking up the blanket with a good amount of trepidation, Ciri unlaced Geralt’s muddy boot and eased it off his foot, trying to ignore the hissing, nasal breaths he took as she did it. When she had to bend the boot to ease it off the final inch, Geralt let out a strangled groan.

“Fuck…that needs new bandages. Need me to do it?”

“After all I’ve done, you think I’m going to shirk at a broken bone? You’re ridiculous.”

Geralt looked relieved when Ciri began unwinding the bandage. His ankle was extremely swollen, black and blue and very painful looking.

“Gods, no wonder this is hurting you. You did an abominable job wrapping it. Didn’t you ever learn to wrap a figure eight?”

“I was more asleep than awake when I did it. I thought it was a figure eight.”

Ciri felt another pang of guilt. She should have been more insistent on helping Geralt wrap his ankle when they had arrived. The man had been dead on his feet. Ciri stretched out the bandage and began wrapping a figure eight around his heel and onto the arch of his foot. It looked much better when she was done, although it was very swollen and all-around painful looking. Ciri wished she had more painkilling herbs. They had only brought one vial of poppy’s milk, and it had been measured to be two doses for her. She had nearly needed to double the dose for it to have any effect on Geralt.

“Better?”

“Much.”

Ciri walked on her knees over to Geralt’s head, and poked around a bit at his side and arm, which, while they looked extremely painful, did not appear to be getting worse. He concealed his winces poorly, which Ciri noticed but failed to comment on. There was very little she could do for his pain with most of the things they had brought depleted or gone.

“We’re running low on supplies. I either need to hunt or we need to leave and get back to the keep. Which one do you think is best?”

Geralt seemed to be drifting again, hazing in and out on pain. He snapped himself back to the present and seemed to consider for a moment.

“We should get back to the keep,” talking seemed to be exhausting him, every word sounded heavier than the last, “This valley…it doesn’t do well to spend too long here. There’s more here than meets the eye.”

“I know. I can feel it. The people watching.”

Geralt frowned at her a bit, even though he kept going cross-eyed and drifting off before jerking himself awake. He shook his head and rubbed at his forehead with his good hand, clearly filing away whatever he intended to say for a time when he was more up to having a conversation. 

“I can tell you have a headache. Rest your eyes. I’ll pack up the camp and wake you when it’s time to leave. Should I bother tacking Aerra?”

“Best not to.” It came out as more of a groan than real words, a muttering that Geralt was clearly afraid to say too loudly. As if someone might overhear him.

“Do you need anything? Before I pack up?”

Geralt scrunched his nose in an expression Ciri was quickly learning meant he was in some sort of mental distress. He looked very tired and pale, and his breath was coming in short rasps indicative of a great deal of pain. Ciri was desperately worried about his ability to tolerate sitting on Roach, even with her behind him, all the way back to the keep. He would need all the rest he could get before they departed.

“Some water…just for my head. Fuck, did I hit it? Everything is blurry and I’ve a fairly impressive headache.”

“No, you didn’t hit it. But you’ve been through a lot. You probably just need water and rest.”

Ciri wondered why Geralt had asked this as she brought him a water skin. The man was old, and judging from his scars this was not the first time he had experienced a severe injury or shock. It made Ciri feel valued, though, that he was deferring to her, just this once. She had never known him to be honest about the pain of a wound before.

Geralt grimaced and clenched his teeth when Ciri propped up his head to take a drink. He looked exhausted, and when he leaned back against her his neck was boneless and his eyes kept losing focus. Ciri took a swig of water herself, and when she looked down again Geralt was fast asleep in her lap. His hair was still braided messily, with curly pieces falling loose around his sweaty forehead. She watched him with some fondness; he looked more peaceful and in less pain when he was sleeping, although he was still sweating and shaking a bit. Clearly the fever was not entirely gone. 

Loathe to leave him when he finally looked a bit more comfortable, Ciri stayed for a while before she slipped Geralt’s head onto a soft shirt and began to quietly make her way around camp. There was no great rush to be ready to leave tonight; Geralt needed to sleep and she didn’t want to leave when it was closer to noon than morning. Normally, travelling in the night would not have been a problem, but with the blood he had lost and the shock of his injuries, Ciri didn’t want Geralt trying to ride Roach through a treacherous pass in the cold of a mountain night. 

The rhythm with which Ciri went about cleaning and packing up their camp was second nature to her at this point. It was only when she was nearly done packing clothes and food into saddlebags that she realized she had adopted Geralt’s meticulous methods, replicating the process she had seen him complete so many times before. It was odd, packing up a camp without him at her side. At some point, on the road to Kaer Morhen, Ciri had come to expect his familiar, quiet presence. Value it even, despite how it frustrated her. Now that he was lying insensible, tossing and turning miserably in his sleep, Ciri found herself desperately wishing for her old frustrations back.

It was dark by the time Ciri was done, having strapped the final blanket onto Roach’s back and secured the buckles with much grunting and swearing. Roach watched her with an air of disapproval; Geralt probably didn’t spend nigh on half an hour trying to his blankets compact enough to fit on her back.

“Sorry, Roach. Needs must, I suppose. I’ll give you a proper brush when we get back to the keep, I promise. You and Aerra. You’ve done everything right.”

A little voice in the back of Ciri’s head was whispered /unlike you/. She tried to ignore it, returning to Geralt’s side and shaking his shoulder gently. He groaned, opened his eyes, and snapped them shut again. His forehead was still warm, Ciri noted with concern, although it had cooled considerably since the fever was at its highest. His face was still tight with pain, though.

“Evening,” she whispered, knowing his headache was probably no better, “How are you feeling?”

“My ankle…fuck.”

This was not the answer Ciri was expecting. Of all Geralt’s injuries, the ankle was the least concerning, and had already had over a day more than the other wounds to heal. It should have been well on its way to being fully repaired, or at least no more than a dull ache. Scrabbling down to his legs, she felt her heart begin to hammer. It had been only hours since she had re-wrapped the broken appendage, but it had been so swollen she hadn’t been able to check it. Besides, she hadn’t felt she needed to. Geralt had set it himself, nights ago. Ciri had seen him set his own bones before, and he had a precision and mastery over his body she had never seen the equal of. As well as extensive knowledge of his body and how to set his bones properly. But as she ran her hands over the bandage, Ciri remembered how tired he had been that night. How she had almost caught him drifting off in the saddle, dismissed it as a trick of the light. It was more than believable, though, that Geralt had been too exhausted to set the bone properly. The day of travel seemed to have taken more out of him than all their travel from Sodden to Kaer Morhen. Ciri briefly wondered why, but dismissed the thought. It was a question for when Geralt was healing. Odds were he was probably already drifting off again.

Sure enough, as soon as Ciri gently applied pressure to the most swollen part of the ankle, Geralt started upright with a strangled gasp, before falling bonelessly back to the ground, panting.

“This is healing all wrong,” Ciri scrunched her nose in frustration, “I can’t fix this, Geralt. I think it need to be re broken and set, but I don’t know how to do that, and even if I did I don’t have the strength.”

Geralt took a bracing breath and opened his mouth, but Ciri cut him off, recognizing the look in his eyes.

“That’s foolish and you know it is. You’ve been sick with fever for days, you can’t sit up, you’ve only the use of one arm, and you’re exhausted. Doing it yourself is out of the question. Especially when you were the one who was too tired to set it properly in the first place. I’m sure Vesemir or Eskel will be able to help you when we get back to Kaer Morhen.”

Ciri winced again. Her voice was becoming more similar to her grandmother’s every day. She swallowed, and met Geralt’s eyes with more than a little shame. He looked back, but all she could see was exhaustion.

“You’re right.” The voice was no more than a breath in the wind. Taking pity, Ciri curled up next to him. The night was chill, and he was far from well.

“We’ll leave when the sun rises. Try to get some more rest. Can I get you some water before you go back to sleep? You haven’t drunk properly in days.”

“Spirit would be fine by me.”

Ciri swatted at him, and was rewarded with a low chuckle, which sounded more like a groan than a sound of real amusement. But at least she had managed to make him smile, get his mind off the pain. 

“I’ll get you some water. And then you can go back to sleep.”

Geralt managed to hold the water skin himself this time, although he still leaned bonelessly on Ciri’s chest. He was so heavy, she had to brace herself against the ground with her free hand. Clearly, he was unable to take any of his own weight. It made Ciri concerned for how he was going to manage to keep his seat on Roach the following morning, but she tried to confront one crisis at a time, lest they overwhelm her.

Once Geralt was done drinking, though, he seemed unable to get back to sleep. Ciri curled up next to him and closed her eyes, but his harsh breaths continued for hours. She could feel him shifting, trying to use his limited mobility to try to get comfortable. Every movement was accompanied by a pained breath, which would quickly hitch as Geralt tried to keep his pain from her. Eventually, after nearly two hours of trying to doze and being woken by Geralt’s movements, Ciri turned to face him.

“This isn’t going to work.” She said shortly. Geralt cracked an eye.

“I’m not forcing you to stay.”

“I didn’t mean it wasn’t working for me. You need to rest if we’re going to make it back to the keep tomorrow. So, tell me how I can help you sleep.”

Ciri remembered on their ride to the keep, when she had woken every night with nightmares. The way Geralt had rolled over and spouted a litany of the dullest facts under the sun until she had fallen asleep. Sometimes, when she had been too frightened to lie still, he had taken her to a clearing where they would lie on their backs and look at the sky in silence. Ciri had cherished those moments. It was odd to now do the same for Geralt.

“Stop your worrying.” Geralt’s voice was pained and his words were still slurring and weak, “I can hear your heart beating from here.”

Ciri sighed and flipped onto her back, placing a hand on Geralt’s good shoulder to help him do the same. She checked over his bandages briefly to make sure his bad arm was still firmly secured to his chest. Then she pointed to the sky.

“The constellations are different here,” she began, feeling her cheeks colouring a bit, “So I don’t know many of them. I’m sure you know all of them, though. So I’m going to make an absolute fool of myself pointing out constellations that don’t really exist until I drive you so mad you fall asleep.”

Ciri started with the North Star, which she recognized from her reading with Eskel, as well as the few constellations she had learned from reading the astrology books at the Keep. Geralt would make small, satisfied noises each time she got one right. By the time she made it to simply tracing stars together and calling them ridiculous names, he was mostly asleep. Every once in a while, a small smile would flicker at his lips when she said something amusing. His eyes were rolling back in his head, though, and by the time Ciri was tracing nekkers and ghouls in the sky he was gone, breaths hitching but rhythmic in his chest. Ciri laid her hand on his chest and felt his heart, which was still racing a bit. His lungs felt weak and fluttery, like they were still struggling to expand. From what she remembered, though, it was a testament to Geralt’s superior healing that he was even able to speak so soon after they had collapsed. Brushing a few strands of hair out of his open mouth, Ciri curled into the ground next to him, back pressed against his side, and found her own rest for the few hours that remained until morning.

\----

Morning came far too soon. The sun was late to rise, simply because the mountains were so high in this valley, but the heat and the singing of the birds woke Ciri as the first tendrils of light were peering over the horizon. She suppressed a groan and rolled over on the hard ground. Her back ached fiercely, and she wanted nothing more than to curl up in a warm bed. Even her bed at Kaer Morhen, which was hard as rock compared to the one she had slept on in Cintra, would have been like sleeping on a cloud compared to the cramped, hard ground. 

Stretching and heaving herself to her feet, Ciri noted with some disappointment that they were all out of food, save a very moldy apple and some dry bread. Geralt would have happily taken the moldy apple, had he been in better condition. Ciri had seen him eat far worse on the road. Unfortunately, such delicacies were too much for her sensitive human stomach. She gnawed a bit on the bread, which had gone so stale that it crunched in her mouth, like eating a mouthful of rocky sand. Abandoning it to the wild creatures, she splashed water on her face, feeling relieved that she had saddled the horses the previous night. It made her feel guilty, leaving them tacked overnight, but she had wanted to get an early start, and she had enough on her mind and shoulders this morning without hauling their heavy saddles as well. 

Tying her hair back haphazardly, Ciri turned to Geralt. He did not look peaceful, but even in health his moments of peace were rare. A frown creased his brow, and there was sweat dripping off him. She did get a small smile, though, from the way he lay on the ground, splayed out in sleep. Normally, he slept with his arms folded under his head, perfectly still, like a corpse. It was a bit amusing to see him thus, no matter the circumstances that had brought him here. 

“Geralt,” Ciri whispered, gently squeezing his good shoulder, “It’s light out. We need to get moving.”

Once again, Ciri drew a disturbing parallel between her actions now and Geralt’s actions towards her several months ago. His gentleness when waking her had always been surprising to her, from a man who seemed to have no time for humanity or gentility. But she got the sense he needed himself to be different for her, even then. Perhaps he would value the same gentleness in return, although Ciri couldn’t imagine treating him any other way.

He frowned a bit, tried to move his bad arm, and then groaned and woke up all at once. A shiver ran through him, and he turned a ghastly shade of white as he tried to blink away the sleep in his eyes. Ciri gripped his good hand until he seemed to have gotten his bearings, at which point he turned to her. His eyes were hazy and very tired, and Ciri wanted nothing more than to let him go back to sleep. He hadn’t managed to stay conscious for more than about a half hour up until this point. She wondered what a day in the saddle would be like, and tried to take a bracing breath.

“I’ll bring you some water, and then we should get moving. Today is going to be a long day, and I don’t want to stop and make camp tonight.”

Geralt sipped the water a bit more willingly today, although he still turned a bit green when he swallowed. Ciri chalked this up to the effect of his broken ribs, and tried not to let herself worry too much about it. They would be back at the keep soon, and then he would be alright. She just had to keep him alive and relatively pain free until then.

Packing away the last few blankets that Geralt had been using to sleep on, Ciri helped him with the clasp of his cloak to ward against the early morning chill. His fingers on his usable hand were clumsy and weak, and when she finally had the clasp done up, Geralt drew the cloak around himself, shivering.

“I’ll do my best to get you onto Roach,” Ciri said, trying to sound confident in herself, “But I need your help. I’m too small to carry you there on my own. Can you try to walk?”

A flash of confusion passed over Geralt’s face, and Ciri wondered if he was coherent enough to understand that her argument made no sense. After all, she had carried him off the mountain face. But whatever strength had been lent to her by the strange mountain being had receded, buried somewhere deep inside her. Ciri could still feel it, bubbling below the surface, but she could not access it. It drove her mad. All she wanted was one more burst, just enough to get them home without causing Geralt more pain. 

“I’ll try.” His voice was rough with exhaustion.

Maneuvering herself under Geralt’s good arm, Ciri breathed in and lifted him up as best she could. Almost immediately, he went limp, gasping in pain as he tried to get his feet underneath him and the pressure off his broken ribs. It didn’t help that Geralt was so much taller than her, Ciri thought frustratedly. No matter how tall she stood, he was still bowed over, probably putting crushing pressure on his injured chest and shoulders. They took a few limping steps forwards, And Geralt sagged in Ciri’s arms, gasping, eyes closed. Ciri went down with him, her knees buckling under the strain. She cursed. It was impossible for her to carry Geralt the rest of the way to Roach, and with all their gear loaded up it would be unfair and dangerous to get Roach to come to them and kneel so Ciri could push Geralt up.

“Please, just a few more steps. We can’t leave if I can’t even get you on Roach, and I’m not letting you die here.”

Geralt stirred a little bit, and groaned weakly. Ciri hated to call it a whimper, but that was how it sounded. He looked miserable, shivering and bloody and covered in sweat. When his eyes opened to half mast, Ciri tried to offer an encouraging smile. She felt it came out more as a grimace.

“Just help me get you on Roach, and then you can pass out and rest the whole way back. I promise. But I can’t do this on my own.”

Closing his eyes, Geralt sighed reedily and maneuvered his uninjured leg back underneath him. Ciri braced her legs and stood them up, and together they managed to trip the rest of the way there. They stumbled to a stop at Roach’s side, and before Ciri lost all her momentum and energy she cupped her hands, lifted Geralt’s good leg, and pushed him up onto Roach’s back. He swung his bad leg over her back in a final effort, and then slumped forwards onto her neck. When Ciri finally managed to pull herself off the ground and walk to the front of Roach to get the reins and check to make sure Aerra was properly fastened to the mare’s saddle, she saw there were tears leaking from Geralt’s eyes. The sight nearly bowled her over.

“Geralt,” she touched his cheek gently, wiping away a tear that was leaking from his tightly clenched eyes, “Are you alright?”

“Fucking…hurts.” He gasped, a hollow, sobbing breath that revealed the full extent of his misery. 

Ciri brushed the two other tears that he had allowed to escape off his cheeks, leaving no evidence to their existence but a salty track that could have just as easily been from sweat. He sighed, slumping more.

“We’ll be home soon,” she whispered, “You’ve taken care of me, so well, for so long. I’ve got you now. Don’t worry. I’ll get us home.”

Checking one last time to make sure all their bags were secured on Aerra’s back, Ciri mounted up behind Geralt. His slumped posture made it impossible for her to sit in the saddle, and she found herself half seated on the cantle and half on Roach’s hot, sweaty back. Awkwardly, she maneuvered herself forwards, and wrapped her arms around Geralt’s waist.

“Can you lean back against me? Lying forwards like that will do no favours for your lungs.”

Geralt managed a weak nod, but his entire body stayed slack, even as Ciri pulled him back to lean on her. He flopped lifelessly against her, letting out a pained groan when the movement jostled his ribs, but unable to control his body anymore. Ciri winced in sympathy, and, in a moment of bravery, took his hand. To her surprise, he didn’t shake her off. Just gave her small fingers a weak squeeze. Ciri shrugged her shoulder to nudge his head to be leaning against the side of her neck. His hot breath misted against her skin as he sighed exhaustedly.

“Try to sleep if you can,” Ciri whispered, wishing she had saved some of their sedative herbs for the journey home, “This will go by faster if you can get some rest.”

She wasn’t even sure if Geralt heard her, but his tight, measured breaths were enough to tell Ciri that he was still awake. They plodded along the path, Ciri reflecting on how much simpler their journey had been on the way here. Her arms ached from trying to keep Geralt in the saddle, and she was exhausted. Every misstep and stone in the path made him groan, and his good arm, which he was using to support his ribs, kept slipping and flopping lifelessly over Roach’s side. Trusting the mare to find her way through the rocks on the less treacherous side of the pass, Ciri closed her eyes and dozed a little bit, keeping Geralt in the saddle mostly out of reflex. The sun beat down as it continued to rise, marking the passage of time. Every moment that passed increased Ciri’s sense of urgency. She had to get Geralt home today; she wasn’t sure he would survive another day in the saddle. Twisting the reins worriedly in her hands, she tried to rest when she could. The ride down the other side of the pass would be treacherous and trying.

\----

As soon as they rode through the small tunnel of the pass, the wind caught Ciri’s hair and whipped it into her face and mouth, so hard her skin stung. She was fairly sure Geralt had fallen into an uneasy sleep, for which she was exceptionally grateful, although she did not expect it to last. Descending through such treacherous terrain on horseback would be difficult, even more so because Ciri was unfamiliar with riding Roach. As much as she didn’t want to jostle Geralt, she felt she had little choice in the matter.

They began picking their way down, through the scree. At first, it went relatively well. The wind was strong, but not nearly as strong as when they had first ascended the pass. Most of the snow had also blown away; spring had continued its slow march forwards, warming and melting and blowing away all traces of the harsh winter. It was a bit of a relief for her, and probably for Geralt as well. She could feel him shivering through his cloak. As they continued on, Ciri could no longer allow her eyes to shut and her thoughts to wander, focused as she was on the path. But her thoughts still came to her, not entirely unbidden, and she allowed herself to explore them a bit. It had been an odd few days, she thought as she shifted Geralt’s shivering head back onto her shoulder and checked to make sure Aerra was still following. She felt close to her new father, the closest she had ever been. Over the past few days, she had made him smile, a rare feat. And she had both nearly killed him and likely saved his life.

It was the last part that frightened her the most. Ciri did not really know how Geralt would react once he was fully in his right mind and remembered exactly what had happened. So far, he had been forgiving, almost unbelievably so. But he had also been out of his mind with fever and pain. Ciri trembled to think of what would happen when they got back to the keep, and he was well enough to truly pass judgement on what she had done. She was unsure if her efforts to save his life would be enough to forgive her stupidity. As Vesemir had said many times, a stupid Witcher is a dead one. Or, in her case, perhaps an exiled one. Ciri shuddered, and winced when Geralt’s face scrunched up into a frown at her trembling shoulders. She did not want to be alone again. Not so soon after she had finally found a place like home.

There was also the matter of her strange encounter on the face. The spirit, or whatever it had been, had been occupying more and more of her mind now that they were safely on their way home. The whole valley had reeked of death, of spirits and final breaths. The air had been rank with it. But Ciri did not know if her perceptions had to do with her own inability to shake the guilt she felt for all the Cintrans who had died unwittingly for her. Part of her hoped the whole thing was just a fever dream, a way her brain had chosen to explain an otherwise inexplicable event. But there was the inescapable fact that she had produced signs. She had carried Geralt, who easily weighed over double her own size, several miles back to the horses. And there was a new feeling, buried deep in her subconscious. An inescapable power, like one of the great fish she had once seen off the starboard side of her grandfather’s ships. Huge, looming, and lurking just below the surface. Ciri did not have the first idea how she might go about engaging it, or how she might interpret what the spirit had said to her at the time it had left her with such strength. It was all a bit overwhelming, and as soon as they left the valley behind, Ciri felt as though she had left a great weight at the top of the pass. There was something otherworldly and strange about the whole place. It left her dizzy and confused, nauseated by the screams and the great loss of life she had sensed from the moment they entered until the moment they departed. The whole place was watchful; the great eye of the sun looming overhead and tiny eyes peering out from every tree. As she thought about it now, Ciri realized it was a similar experience to how she had felt in the final moments she had spent in the caves under the keep. More and more, she felt watched by the spirits of the dead. It unnerved and frightened her. And worst of all, she felt like she had nowhere to turn. Trapped and alone, with undiscovered powers and an injured man in the middle of the mountains. There was no one to hear her scream here but the miles and miles of endless trees, stones and lakes. If the watchful spirits decided their intent was malevolent, Ciri knew she would be gone, vanished without a trace. Shuddering, she stared at the looming rock walls that separated her from the hunting valley. The further she got from this place, the safer she would feel from watchful eyes. 

They passed the place where they had stopped for lunch on the way from the keep at about noon, and with little incident. Ciri found herself wishing desperately for that day back. She felt very frightened and unnerved now, alone with the wind and her own thoughts. She had taken out the stone Geralt had given her here several hours ago and was fingering it nervously, running her hands over the smoothest parts and finding the ridges that had once belonged to the sea creature’s shell. 

A little after they passed the large rock where they had eaten, they entered into the dense pine forest that characterized the Morhen Valley. Ciri breathed an audible sigh of relief. She felt much safer here. Whatever watchful eyes had been drilling into her back all the way through the scree, they were gone here. Wiping sweat off her forehead, Ciri took a swig of water and urged Roach ahead. They came across a small, mossy clearing that she remembered from their previous journey, and Ciri pulled Roach to a stop, petting her neck gently. Both horses were soaked with salty lines of sweat. The day was already becoming hot, now that they were out of the unforgiving wind. Ciri silently promised herself that she would allow the horses to run free in the meadows with the sweetest grass for days when they returned to the keep. This had not been an easy journey for any of them, and she was incredibly grateful to the horses for their seemingly never-ending patience.

Once Roach had stopped, her head dipping from exhaustion, Ciri shifted her shoulder a little, trying to waken Geralt as naturally as possible. To her surprise and concern, he had managed to stay asleep all the way through their descent from the pass, no matter how bumpy it had gotten. He had mostly looked pained, sweat beading on his brow even though he continued shivering, no matter how much Ciri wrapped his cloak tightly around him.

He stirred a bit when she shifted, but didn’t truly waken until she resorted to giving him a sharp poke in the less damaged side of his chest. Then, he started awake all at once, eyes flying open and hand flying to his side, where he winced as soon as it made contact.

“Just me,” Ciri whispered, “I thought we ought to stop for something to eat and a rest before we continue on. We’re almost half way back, you know.”

Geralt blinked, looking thoroughly confused. Ciri wasn’t surprised; he had fallen asleep in completely different terrain, waking up somewhere new with no understanding of how he had come to be there must be terrifying. She squeezed his good shoulder.

“We’re almost home,” she whispered, hoping her speech would be something at least a bit familiar and grounding for him, “Just a little longer now.”

“Fuck…’m so tired.”

“I know. Here, try to slip over this side of the saddle. There, slowly, don’t take your weight on your bad ankle. There’s moss here, it’s soft and lovely and the sun is making it wonderful and warm. I could come back here and spend all day reading or training, when you’re well again.”

Geralt frowned a bit, clearly trying to keep up with her monologue. She eased him onto the ground and led Roach and Aerra to the side of the clearing, trusting them not to run off. There was a small spring running through the woods, and they stopped to drink almost immediately. Ciri felt more guilt. She had clearly run both horses ragged trying to make it through the pass on time.

Returning to Geralt’s side, she found him tentatively poking at his broken shoulder, wincing tiredly. Ciri had not checked the bandages since they had left, but the last time she had seen his shoulder it was so bruised and swollen she had doubted Geralt would be able to move it at all. Watching him now, it was clear she was right. It was a broken, painful mess.

“Leave it for now. We’ll get it resting properly when we get back to Kaer Morhen.”

Geralt flopped back onto the moss and gratefully accepted the water Ciri offered him. Even after a whole morning of sleeping in the saddle, he looked exhausted. When Ciri tried to pass him some stale bread, he shook his head, turning pale.

“Are you feeling sick still?”

All she got in return was a nod and a convulsive swallow. Concerned, Ciri wondered what was causing Geralt to still feel so sick. She shot him a questioning glance, and she could see him bracing himself to respond. Speaking clearly pained his healing ribs a great deal.

“Too many broken bones…my body’s in shock.” Geralt’s eyes were closed, and his words slurred together alarmingly.

Ciri nodded, having suspected as much. It was still a bit frightening; Geralt looked weak and dizzy and confused and he was falling asleep even as Ciri tried to stretch out her sore legs, preparing for the long ride they still had ahead of them. She wanted nothing more than to subside into the soft moss and rest for a bit. There were tiny pink blooms appearing from the velvety green moss, and they were spangled with bits of dew. It was so peaceful. Ciri vowed to come back here, once their situation was no longer so dire. Peace was a commodity difficult to come by at Kaer Morhen. 

Trying to ignore the aching complaints of her muscles, Ciri gently coaxed Geralt back into the saddle. It was easier this time; he seemed a bit more alert and in control of himself. Roach sighed tiredly, and Ciri smiled a little when Geralt, slumped against her neck and breathing heavily, reached over and gently rubbed his good hand up and down her foreleg. She leaned back and nosed him softly, and he closed his eyes.

“Just a little further now,” Ciri muttered, unsure if she was encouraging herself, Geralt, the horses, or all three, “We’ll be home soon enough.”

Then she hauled her aching muscles back into the saddle, settled uncomfortably nearly on Roach’s bare back. Geralt pushed himself up tiredly and leaned against her, good arm wrapped protectively around his torso and his leg elevated as much as he could manage without positioning himself too awkwardly. The late afternoon sun filtered in through the trees, casting dappled rays on the soft floor of pine needles and moss. Ciri breathed, trying to take in some energy from the seemingly boundless source of the forest around her. And then, she turned in the direction of Kaer Morhen, and began to lead them on the final leg of their journey home.


	7. Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri make it back to the Keep. Ciri is worried. Geralt is ill. Ciri might have had a bit of a worse time of it than she had originally assessed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome, lovely humans! Before we dive into another chapter, I just wanted to once again take this opportunity to thank you guys from the bottom of my happy author's heart for all your kind comments and kudos on the last chapter! This story has been such a labour of love, and it means the world to me that you guys are enjoying reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it! I have all except the last chapter done, so I should be back to my regular Tuesday updates again! 
> 
> Also, I have extremely lofty ambitions of completing every day of Whumptober this year (what can I say...I'm on a gap semester). That being said, I'm currently working on those prompts, so if there's a prompt that particularly speaks to you from the list that you'd like to see me write on, I'll HAPPILY take your suggestions! It's hard work coming up with a story for every single prompt, so input is greatly valued!
> 
> Anyways, that's all for now. Really hope you enjoy the new chapter, sending love. As always, my eternal gratitude is given to RoachIsJudgingYou for being my beta extraordinaire, they are truly a fabulous, lovely human being.

Ciri was so exhausted she barely recognized when they began to enter the more familiar topography of the land near Kaer Morhen. She was slumped in the saddle, leaning back on her hands, which she had placed on Roach’s back to help support the fact that she was holding both her own and Geralt’s weight. Her mind drifted, consumed by thoughts of the ghostly spirit she had encountered on the mountain, and of Geralt’s reaction once he was aware enough to remember how he had been injured. Her heart pounded at the thought that this could be the last time she was returning to Kaer Morhen. While the chances of Geralt being furious with her seemed to be lessening, based on his reactions to her as he was more cognizant, Ciri was still frightened. Lambert and Vesemir would have little time for her failures, even if Geralt could find it in him to forgive her. One conversation with them would be all it took for Geralt to see her for what she was; an incapable little girl. And she doubted she would be allowed to stay at the keep long, once they all realized she had proven she was not cut out to be a Witcher.

“Be quiet.” Geralt’s voice was so soft and unexpected it nearly caused Ciri to slide backwards off Roach’s rump. Collecting herself, she sat up straighter and accidentally pushed him forwards as well, causing him to wrap his good arm tighter around his ribs and let out a hissing breath.

“Gods, sorry. What did you say?”

“You…need to stop thinking. I can feel you doing it. Your heart is pounding, you’re breathing as though you’ve just run…three miles. Whatever’s on your mind…stop. It’s…noisy.”

This small exposition left Geralt pale and gasping, and Ciri gave him a moment to catch his breath. She was surprised he had been conscious at all, let alone aware enough to hear her elevated heart rate and gasping breaths.

“It’s nothing,” she said shortly, not wanting to open this particular topic to conversation when Geralt was still white as a sheet and sweating through his shirt and cloak even as he shivered, “Don’t worry about it. I’m just eager to make it back.”

It was a testament to how ill Geralt still was that he chose to accept this explanation, even though Ciri knew none of her physical symptoms had abated. He shivered a bit, and Ciri wrapped a spare arm around his shoulders, surprised when he did not push her away, instead settling into her warmth without a second thought.

“Cold?”

“A bit. It’s spring.”

“You’re ill. And sweating through your cloak.”

Geralt looked down, seemingly surprised to see his dark cloak was soaked with sweat. His eyebrows furrowed in concern.

“Fever’s coming back.”

“I know. There’s not much I can do until we get to Kaer Morhen. I’m sure Eskel will take good care of you once we arrive.”

Geralt frowned again, looking disturbed, as though something about what Ciri had said didn’t sit well with him. His jaw worked, a physical reaction Ciri had observed often in him when he was unable to find the words to express whatever was on his mind. He took a few breaths, as though he were about to speak, but they petered out. Ciri almost thought he had fallen back asleep when he breathed in again, making her start a bit.

“What about you?” His teeth were chattering now, making his speech more garbled and slurred than it already was.

“What about me? No, come here, you’re sliding off Roach.”

Geralt settled his head back on Ciri’s shoulder, which she was surprised was comfortable for him, considering how much taller he was. But his whole position was odd, slumped and reclining in the saddle, one leg elevated. She supposed at a certain point, the body stopped paying attention to minor discomforts and focused all its energies on the large, life-threatening ones.

“Where will you go…when we arrive?”

“To the kitchens, I suppose,” Ciri felt completely bemused by this line of questioning, “I haven’t eaten properly in days. Then I’ll probably go to sleep.”

“Stupid idea. Eskel…doesn’t know what happened. You do. You need…to stay.”

There was a small, wishful part of Ciri’s brain that added a ‘with me’ to the end of that sentence. But, her heart still swelled a bit at the idea that Geralt wanted her alongside him. Even if the way he had expressed the thought had been a bit inconsiderate. She could forgive him that, fevered as he was.

“Alright. Tell me…when it’s not a stupid idea to go.”

Geralt’s mouth quirked up in a smile that was a bit too mirthful to be the smile of someone entirely in control of their faculties. His eyes were fluttering, rolling back in his head, even though Ciri could tell he was fighting it.

“Just go to sleep. You’ll wake when we get to Kaer Morhen.”

He offered a valiant effort to stay awake for another few minutes as more familiar landmarks passed them by. The stone where Ciri and Eskel had meditated, complete with the felled tree from their final visit. A cavern with a pool that was wonderfully warm and pleasant on aching muscles after a day spent training and running the paths around the keep. The game path down which Ciri had once found herself after a particularly prolific bout of somnambulance. That time, when she had woken curled in the dirt on the side of the path with no memory of arriving there, Geralt had come and found her, having been awake to see when she had wandered off into the woods. She remembered the way he had wrapped her in his cloak, the same one he was wearing now, and escorted her back in silence, but with an arm wrapped around her shoulder. He had stayed with her that night, she thought. She remembered falling asleep to him building up the fire in her room, and waking to him sleeping awkwardly in an armchair next to her bed. He had woken at about the same time, massaged out a crick in his neck, greeted her, and left without another word. Ciri had almost forgotten the whole incident, but now her heart swelled a bit at the thought of it.

By the time they had cleared the final ranks of trees at the base of the Morhen valley, Geralt was fast asleep. Ciri sighed with a combination of relief and trepidation as she guided the horses up the path, between the rocky scree that led to the gates of the keep. Her heart pounded, and she could feel her stomach turning anxiously within her chest. Part of her wanted to drop Geralt off, turn Aerra about and ride for the hills. But, she knew they had been spotted making their approach by now. Vesemir had probably known for the whole afternoon. Very little happened in the valley that he was not aware of. And, placing all the inescapability of the keep aside, this was Ciri’s home now. A home Geralt had asked her to return to, with him. She did not plan on running from the first place she had been able to give such a name to since Cintra fell. 

The crunching sounds of Roach’s hooves as she navigated the treacherous road to the keep suddenly seemed much louder. Ciri’s heart hammered in her chest. She was surprised it didn’t wake Geralt entirely, though he was shifting now, nestling more deeply in his cloak as though he were cold. Ciri herself had shed all warm clothing hours ago, and the fact that Geralt had not done the same concerned her.

When they finally arrived at the gates, they creaked open of their own accord. This was not unusual, the mechanism by which they opened was located in a sally port to the right of the actual entrance. However, today it felt ominous. As though they were being watched by invisible eyes. Similar to the feeling Ciri thought she had left behind in the valley. Some small part of her felt as though the silent sentinels of those peaks were still staring down, boring holes into her back. She resisted the urge to glance over her shoulder, back towards the mountain range from whence they had come. A shiver worked its way down her spine despite the high spring heat. The timbre of Roach’s hooves changed to be more metallic as they crossed onto the cleanly swept flags of the courtyard.

At first, Ciri saw no one waiting for them, which shocked her. They had sent out a Witcher and a trainee several days ago, and now two riders, one clearly injured, were knocking at Kaer Morhen’s door. But then Ciri turned her head to the side and practically fell the opposite way off Roach; Eskel was standing nearly at her knee and she had not realized it. Cursing, she rationalized that spending days in the mountains with very little sleep and plenty of stress had probably done her reflexes no favours. She steadied herself, and took a little comfort in the warmth of Eskel’s hand as he placed it on her knee. His eyes, warmer than Geralt’s, were full of concern.

“Ciri, what happened? Are you alright?”

Ciri nearly burst out laughing, so ridiculous was the question. Although, she supposed on further thought that it was very clear that Geralt was not alright, so there had been no point in Eskel wasting his breath. Witchers were practical to a fault.

“I’m fine,” she realized her voice was hoarse, and probably had been for some time, “But Geralt needs help. There…there was an avalanche. He’s broken fairly the whole left side of his torso. And an ankle as well.”

Ciri’s outright guilt and misery crept into her tone at the end of her explanation, and she could see questions beginning to appear on Eskel’s lips. However, he licked them and swallowed back whatever he might have wanted to ask. Lambert and Vesemir appeared, seemingly out of thin air, and dragged Geralt off Roach even as Eskel lifted Ciri into his arms. She had not realized until her legs hit the ground how weak she was. Clearly, sitting in the saddle all day had done her muscles no favours. Strangely enough, she also felt tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. She blinked furiously and rubbed at them. Hopefully, Eskel would think they were just dusty.

As she rubbed at her eyes, Ciri suddenly realized that Geralt, who was supported awkwardly by his good arm and his torso between Lambert and Vesemir, was being taken off in an entirely different direction than where Eskel was taking her. Her heart suddenly started hammering in her chest.

“Eskel,” she whispered, pushing against the grating of her vocal cords, “Stop. Please. Geralt…he asked me. I need to stay with him. I promised.”

She suddenly felt so very tired. Her head lolled back in Eskel’s arms, and the sky spun lazily above her. She wondered if she might pass out, until Eskel shook her gently. His eyes had softened even more, and there was what looked like a small smile creasing at his face. His face was gentle, and she could feel his course changing, minute changes in his muscles that signified he was turning. She had learned so much about the body and the muscular structure since being here. In a way, that had probably been one of the many factors that had allowed her to save Geralt’s life. 

“Thank you.” She whispered. Her eyes were slipping closed now. Eskel squeezed her shoulder gently.

“Perhaps not all went poorly for you, after all.” 

The remark was quiet, almost stolen by the mountain wind. In her exhausted, befuddled state, Ciri couldn’t understand it. Just that there was something momentous about it, that Eskel’s cadence and demeanour had changed when he said it. That made her feel happy, like she had accomplished something. There was still an underlying unease to the situation; Eskel did not yet know the details of what had happened. His joy, or relief, or whatever emotion he was expressing, would most likely change in an instant when he found out what she had done. But Ciri couldn’t remember what she had done. Couldn’t remember anything except that she needed to stay with Geralt, that she had promised him. And that she was so very, very tired.

\----

There was a fire burning. A fire burning in a fireplace, which struck Ciri as odd. Her last memories involved being outside, struggling to build a fire with Geralt’s flint while he lay insensible next to her. But the echoing of the soft crackles, the gentle howling sound of wind over the top of the chimney, there was no doubt that she was not outside now. There was a warm blanket draped over top of her. It weighed her down. Or perhaps that was simply her exhaustion. Ciri felt so very tired. She wanted to roll over and go back to sleep. The only thing that woke her more, made her heart pound a little more urgently, was that in her final memories Geralt had been lying next to her unconscious. She had made a promise to him, she remembered. That she would stay by his side and explain what had happened. Because Vesemir would need to know, and Geralt would be unable to explain it. 

Ciri peeled her eyes back, with such a distinct effort that she felt as though she were peeling an orange. Her lids were firmly stuck together, and they felt gritty and horrific. She wondered if this was what the lords of Cintra had complained about after a night spent drinking. If it was, she never wanted any part of it.

When she did finally manage to open her eyes, everything was blurry and the dim light of the room bled and shifted around her. Blinking a bit and bringing up hands to rub away the grit from her lids, things cleared. She noticed with some surprise that her hands were bandaged. She had not realized they were injured. A thrill of fear worked its way through her chest. If she couldn’t even remember the causes of her own ailments, what else was she missing? Had Geralt, wounded at her last coherent memory, died while she had been lying lazily by the fire? Ciri’s heart pounded and she felt tears pricking in the corners of her eyes. Viciously, she wiped them away and struggled to sit. Her arms felt like pudding, wobbly and strange and far too relaxed, but painful at the same time. Like she had been stretched out too far. After a bit of grunting and straining, though, she did manage to sit, and found herself tucked under an enormous bear’s skin on a rug next to a familiar hearth. Not familiar because she had spent much time near it, though. No, this hearth was familiar simply because of the meaningfulness of the moments she had spent in the room it inhabited. Geralt’s room. Where she had slept for the first few nights in Kaer Morhen. Where Geralt had brought her several times after he had found her shivering in the library, too plagued by nightmares to get back to sleep. She remembered lying near here, while Geralt had crouched over silently, stoked the fire, and sat with her just as quietly until she had finally drifted off again.

Turning her sore neck a few times and bringing up a bandaged hand to massage it, Ciri turned to the chair Geralt normally occupied on the nights when he had allowed her to come here. Her memories of the hunting trip were beginning to return, and she was desperately hoping it had been nothing more than a particularly vivid nightmare. Her hopes were dashed, however, when she found Eskel slumped out in the armchair. His long legs were crossed at the ankles, and he looked as though he had fallen asleep entirely by mistake, and without time to get himself comfortable. More unsettlingly, her shifting about hadn’t roused him. If Ciri had come to know nothing else in her months of living with Witchers, it was that they were incredibly light sleepers. The few times she had stumbled on Geralt or Eskel napping in the library, it had taken barely more than her breathing to awaken them. A little frightened for her own safety should she awaken Eskel and startle him, Ciri knocked a book off a shelf, and was pleased when Eskel awoke with a start as it thumped onto the wooden floorboards. 

“Fucking hell, Ciri. What are you doing awake?”

Ciri crinkled her eyebrows, not having expected to have to explain such a normal bodily function. However, before she could open her mouth, Eskel stared out the runny glass panes, and gulped audibly.

“Goddess, it’s later than I thought. We’d given you a sedative, you see. To help you sleep. You arrived at the Keep completely exhausted, and we needed to find a way to help you before you became delirious.”

Ciri nodded in understanding. Her memories were still very foggy. She felt like everything she had experienced over the last few days was distanced, as though she were floating underwater, and could hear the faint murmurings of a conversation on land. She could remember riding now. Riding with Geralt in front of her, gravely injured. Of feeling fear upon her return to Kaer Morhen. Her heart plummeted into her boots.

“How’s Geralt? Did he wake up? Will he be alright?”

Eskel placed a hand on Ciri’s chest, and she realized he could hear her heart thumping like a prized racehorse’s, pounding against her ribs. Her breath heaved in her chest.

“Calm down. He’s here, he’ll be alright. He hasn’t woken up yet.”

Ciri suddenly found herself very weak in the knees as Eskel led her to Geralt’s bed. He placed a bracing arm under her own; and cast her a sympathetic glance. Ciri wanted to tell him it was just weakness from the long ride, but they both knew that was not true.

“Before you see him,” Eskel turned, blocking Ciri’s view of the bed, “You should know that you probably saved his life. I saw what you did, with his lungs. I’ll not bother asking where you learned that, only that even a Witcher can’t survive such a wound without medical or magical intervention. And seeing as how he seemingly forgot to bring any potions with him, you were his only chance at survival.”

Ciri felt like a hot stone had been dropped in the middle of her stomach. Clearly, Eskel did not yet know the truth. She couldn’t bear being treated as a hero, considering that Geralt would never have been in such a position if it hadn’t been for her own stupidity. She took a bracing breath, preparing to tell Eskel the truth, but before she could, he shot her a strange look and stepped aside.

“Whatever you were about to say, it can wait. When we got you in, all you could say was how Geralt asked you to stay with him. You wouldn’t be parted from him. You realize how rare that is, yes? He wouldn’t ask just anyone to stay by his side, even for such a practical reason as to inform us of his injuries. You’d best not betray his trust in you now.”

Eskel stepped aside with a hard look, and Ciri tried to keep her lower lip from wobbling. She hadn’t felt so overwhelmed or confused in a very long time, and it was wreaking havoc on her overtired mind. She took Eskel’s elbow and sank down onto the mattress, noticing with some fear that Geralt didn’t even stir when her weight shifted him.

“We’ve given him laudanum to keep him under; he was in too much pain for it to be expected that he endure tonight anything other than drugged senseless. His injuries are healing. But we can’t give him any potions for the moment. Whatever fever he had exhausted his body too much, they would most likely kill him.”

Ciri nodded and, feeling extremely apprehensive, took Geralt’s large hand in her own. It was so much bigger than hers it took both her small hands to cradle it, and it was clammy and cold. She ran a finger over the back, noticing that the hair on his hands was brown, unlike the hair on his head. She was struck with a dizzy desire to giggle, though she did not know why.

When she finally got the courage to level her gaze to Geralt’s face, Ciri was relieved to find it a bit less sickly looking than the last time she had seen him. Perhaps it was simply the fact that he was now drugged asleep and his wounds were freshly bandaged, or that the crackling fire cast a warm glow over his pale cheeks, giving the illusion of health. The only thing that shattered the serene illusion was the sweat trickling down his forehead, and the way he would occasionally shiver in his sleep, as though caught up in a spasmodic nightmare. When Ciri took one hand and placed it to his forehead, she found it was still very warm. Eskel leaned over her shoulder and put a cloth dampened with cold water over Geralt’s forehead.

“Is the fever getting better?” Ciri felt real fear pounding in her chest again, hot and real. She had known far too many people in Cintra who had died of fever, simply wasting away despite the best efforts of the healers.

“It should break soon. I’ve been keeping him cool, I think the main issue is his body trying to heal all the damage done to it. Sometimes, when the body can’t cope, it perceives everything as a threat, even itself. It should pass as he heals a bit and gets stronger. His body is just fighting off everything right now.”

Ciri nodded, still feeling a bit worried. Geralt’s brows tightened as she brushed a sweaty lock of hair away from his forehead, and he turned his head a bit, searching for a part of the pillow that wasn’t covered in sweat. Finding himself unsuccessful, he settled back into sleep with a small, gentle exhalation that Ciri found to be incredibly uncharacteristic to his hard exterior. An exterior which had been cracking more and more the longer she spent getting to know him.

When she looked up, Ciri found that Eskel was no longer in the bedchamber. Bemused and a little unsettled she hadn’t noticed him go, Ciri stifled a yawn. Every muscle in her body ached from the ride, and her hands stung, even wrapped in bandages and probably slathered in garlic salve. She must have received those wounds from gripping Roach’s reins so tightly as they made their descent. Strange, she hadn’t even noticed the pain or the blood dripping down her arms until they had made it safely back to Kaer Morhen. Yawning again, Ciri leaned her chin on a bandaged hand. She could rest for a moment, she thought. Just a moment here, with her eyes closed, and then she would make her way over to the chair at Geralt’s bedside once her energy was restored. Her eyes fell shut, heavier than lead. The fire crackled comfortingly, and Ciri could hear Geralt’s breaths, more even now than they had been on the ride. He was still wheezing a bit, and every intake sounded painful. But in a way, it was so comforting just to hear him breathing. To know that, despite her stupidity, he was still alive. It ached a little, to think that she might have to leave Kaer Morhen when he woke, that she would spend the rest of her years wondering whether he was alive without ever really knowing. For the moment, though, Ciri took contentment in being here, with Geralt, bathed in the warmth and reassurance that he would be alright. 

\----

Everything felt so heavy. Heavy and…hot. Like someone had laid a wool blanket over him on the warmest day of summer, then left him in the blazing sun of high noon in the mountains. It was a deeply unpleasant sensation, as was the fact that Geralt appeared to be too weak to shift whatever weight was holding him down. He felt his eyebrows draw together into a slightly panicked frown, and his breaths increased. Sweet Goddess, when had it become so difficult to breathe? It felt as though a hole had been poked through his lung, through which all the air was leaking. Geralt suppressed a groan, although he doubted it would have come out as much more than a weak breath or whimper. He was restless, fevered. Most likely delirious, though he took comfort that some part of his brain was clearly aware enough to let him know how poorly he was feeling.

There was a more solid, lifelike weight resting on his right arm. It seemed to move in cadence with his own breaths, a bit faster though, a bit lighter. Curious, Geralt managed to crack an eye. Everything was very blurry, but it seemed he was staring up at the familiar ceiling of his own quarters in Kaer Morhen. Whoever had brought him here had laid him out flat on his back, and he was largely propped up by what felt like pillows on his lefthand side, supporting his broken ribs. He blinked a few times, trying to clear his sight, but it didn’t work. The muted colours of the plank ceiling and the beams ran together like a watercolour left out in the rain. Geralt bit his lip and squeezed his eyes shut, all notions of discovering the origins of the weight on his righthand side forgotten. Someone must have drugged him; he was incredibly disoriented and nauseous, and wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep. He felt almost too tired, though. Too exhausted and in too much pain to fall asleep, but too ill to stay fully awake. Geralt tried not to wallow, which was easier than he expected, considering he could not hold onto a thought for more than a few seconds. Notions swirled in his head like fall leaves tossed up in a gale. It made him very dizzy, even though his eyes were still firmly squeezed shut.

Somewhere along the line, he must have twitched his right hand, because the person sleeping roused with a disgustingly wet gasp, followed by a burst of coughing and a muffled groan. Geralt allowed himself a small frown. He had been dozing feverishly, and had managed to find a cool spot on the pillow that soothed his aching head. Now, everything was thrown off again. His whole left side throbbed, in time with a heartbeat that seemed abnormally fast. Every deep breath he tried to take in order to lower it sent agony spiking through his lungs. He floated like that, just aware enough to know he was very ill.

“Melitele, Geralt, are you awake? Eskel said he’d drugged you; I wasn’t expecting you to be up for a while yet. Gods, I’m sorry I fell asleep.”

Ah. Ciri. He recognized the lilt to her voice. It was rather embarrassing he hadn’t recognized her breathing the moment he woke. Perhaps he was worse off than he originally thought.

Ciri had reached over and was moving what must have at one time been a damp rag off Geralt’s forehead. It was more lukewarm now, and he could hear her splashing about before laying it back on his forehead, newly cooled and full of blessed relief for his feverish headache. There was a creak and an audible groan as Ciri sat down again, and Geralt felt a jolt of concern so visceral it caused him to shift uncomfortably, prompting Ciri to place a hand on his shoulder.

“You’re alright. Try to go back to sleep. You won’t be going anywhere for a while, you may as well take advantage and get some rest.”

Geralt forced an eye open. He knew Ciri better than to assume she could be trusted to take care of herself on her own. 

“You’re…hurt?” It came out as more of a raspy whisper than the authoritative tone Geralt had hoped for, but under the circumstances he hoped it would do. He couldn’t see her very well, but the vague shape of Ciri’s head haloed by her mousy hair turned and moved closer.

“Barely. Scraped up my hands on the reins riding back. A few sore muscles.”

Geralt wanted to tell her to take a break. To go to the kitchens and get a proper meal, take a bath. He had accompanied his own injured brothers back to Kaer Morhen often enough to understand how such things fell to the wayside under the threat of impending death. But he was simply too tired. Already, his eyes were falling shut, mind drifting back into its uneasy state between sleep and wakefulness. He shivered, the cloth on his forehead now far too cold for comfort. The blankets were too heavy, the fire too loud, and Gods if he wasn’t cold. 

Ciri reached over and removed the cloth, seemingly sensing his discomfort. There was a moment during which the frigid mountain air made contact with Geralt’s sweaty brow, causing him to shiver even more violently. He could almost feel Ciri thinking, hesitating. Then her tiny hand reached over with a soft rustle and covered his forehead. It was pleasantly warm, and Geralt felt a weak smile flit across his features. Had he been in more control of himself, he reflected dizzily, he would have been mortified at such blatant acceptance of affection. As it was, though, he was too sick to care. Ciri’s hand was warm, and he was cold, and that was a practical enough reason to justify allowing her to stay there.

He must have lost time after that, because the next thing Geralt was aware of was a much larger hand wrapping around the back of his neck. He jolted, adrenaline coursing through his veins, before he recognized Eskel’s scent and sagged backwards. He had not been sleeping, not truly, and he was completely exhausted. Eskel brought a mug to his lips, and it tasted only of water, for which Geralt was both supremely grateful and a bit disappointed. Normally, drugs that clouded his mind only made him feel worse in the end. But he would have given anything to be offered a bit of help to get some rest.

“Good to see you’re still with us.” Geralt couldn’t muster the energy to open his eyes, but he could hear the grim smile on Eskel’s voice.

“’S…debatable.”

“Well, you can tell me apart from Ciri, and that’s a start, I suppose. No, don’t lie back quite yet. I’m going to give you something to help you sleep. You managed to get yourself into impressively bad shape out there. When you’re well, I can assure you I’ll mock you mercilessly for getting yourself into such a state on a simple hunting trip.”

For some reason, this sent a jolt of worry through Geralt. His hands tightened on the blankets, as much as they were able with one arm completely out of commission. For some reason, he felt profoundly wrong about making light of his situation. Not for his own sake. He and his brothers had a long history of making light of their near death experiences. But some part of his brain kept whispering over and over that Ciri would be damaged irrevocably if Geralt allowed Eskel to indulge in his usual lighthearted teasing, at least when it came to this particular instance.

Eskel, sensing Geralt’s distress, rubbed his thumb in a circular pattern on the back of his brother’s neck. 

“What’s wrong? Your heart’s nearly doubled in speed. Did we miss something? Do you have another broken bone?”

Eskel’s breathing was increasing, which alone made Geralt feel deeply unsettled. His brother very rarely let his heart rule over his head, at least in such practical matters as healing. Feverishly, Geralt wondered if he was truly in such a bad way as to warrant such concern.

“‘M fine…Ciri.”

Whatever more Geralt had wanted to say, it was quickly devolving into feverish ramblings. He felt he no longer had control over his tongue, or even his mind. In a vague way, he could feel his mouth moving, probably rambling on about something completely inconsequential. But there was such a huge gap now between his dwindling consciousness and the words spewing from his mouth, Geralt doubted that they even made sense. He felt Eskel lift his head a bit again, and tasted the cloying, flowery sweetness of poppy’s milk coat his tongue. He swirled his tongue in his mouth irritably. Poppy’s milk always stuck to his teeth. It made him feel unclean and sick, more than he already did. Not to mention that his tongue felt swollen and fuzzy, and like it was about to expand and take flight from his mouth. No…that didn’t make sense. One’s body parts did not simply detach without being cut off. At least, not usually. Geralt felt a strange urge to laugh. Clearly, he was out of his mind on opiates and fever. The bed felt like it was spinning lazily down a slow moving river. It was a dizzying sensation, and Geralt swallowed against his nausea. It wouldn’t do to vomit in a river. Not when it was often the only source of water for villagers and farmers. When had he ended up in a river? Geralt couldn’t remember. Everything was confusing, and hot, and he felt so very ill. Someone was stroking his forehead, and suddenly he was cold all over, the warmth seeping from his very bones into the ground beneath him. Gods, he was sick. He resolved to thank whoever was taking the time to sit with him when he was more himself again. And then, his consciousness slipped away stickily, like treacle from a broken bowl.

The next time Geralt awoke, if one could really call it that, he noticed that he could see the red outlines of the blood vessels that lined the backs of his lids. There was light filtering in from the outside, then. He deduced it must be day. Although he felt horrible, barely rested, so he couldn’t have slept for more than a few hours. Clearly it had only been the poppy’s milk keeping him under, and his mutations caused him to have an unfortunately high tolerance to the stuff. Now, his arm hurt, and every breath felt like he was sucking air through a dampened cloth. 

His breathing pattern must have changed, because Geralt heard a rustle of movement at his side. Someone with a small hand gently touched his bad shoulder. He couldn’t suppress a wince, but he was glad it was only Ciri. If his foggy memories were to be trusted, she had seen him through far worse by this point. 

Ciri hissed a little when he winced away.

“Oh hells, sorry. I wasn’t sure if you were awake.”

Geralt had to suppress a small smile at her cursing. Only a princess would use such gentle words and still consider it blasphemous. 

“Am now.” His voice was raspy and every word felt like sandpaper being rubbed up and down the back of his throat.

“Shhh, you shouldn’t be talking. Let me get you some water and check your bandages, and if you’re still awake then we can have a proper conversation.”

There was something tight in Ciri’s voice. Geralt wanted to ask her what was wrong, but the words caught in his throat. He wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was simply that he had never asked such questions before. Even with Yennefer, speaking of inner conflict or problems outside of their immediate personal relationship was off limits. Geralt frowned tiredly. Such thoughts were too taxing when he could still feel fever burning brightly under his skin.

Ciri gave him some water and gently wiped up what he couldn’t swallow without comment, despite the slight flush in Geralt’s cheeks. He hoped she would attribute it to the fever. He hated such weakness, especially in front of the child he was supposed to be protecting. Then she poked around at his bandages a little, while Geralt tried to allow himself to drift. She talked as she worked, he noticed. It was soothing on his tired mind and aching head. Damned if he didn’t want this fever gone.

“Your bruises are looking far better, which is good, although I think it’ll be a while before you have much ability to move your left side. It’s been horribly crushed. We had to re break your ankle to set it properly. At least, that’s what Eskel told me, I was asleep. A lot of the connective tissue was damaged or torn, so it’ll be a while to heal as well. It’s a good thing we can stay here while you heal.”

Geralt drifted feverishly, dazedly acknowledging that while his ankle did hurt, it no longer felt quite so wrong as the last time he had spared it any attention. Ciri wrapped his arm tightly against his side and hurried to prop him up with pillows again, easing his breathing considerably. Geralt wondered when it had become so difficult to breathe. Every intake of breath was like trying to get air through a reed. Perhaps that was why he was so tired.

“I know you’re still awake,” Ciri whispered gently, jolting him a bit, “Shall I read to you some? Or we can talk, if you’re feeling well enough. You’re still quite fevered, but don’t worry, I won’t tell what you say.”

Geralt gave another involuntary shiver, and Ciri gripped his good shoulder bracingly until it passed. She was humming under her breath, he noticed. It reminded him of Dandelion’s incessant humming during their travels. He missed the noise, he thought sleepily. It was a nice addition to the busy silence of the forest. 

“‘M tired, Ciri. You…you can read.”

Geralt felt like there was something else important that he needed to say. His subconscious was warning him, practically screaming at him to go on. But his words were slurring, and he was dizzy even though his eyes were closed. Every inch of his skin was hot and tight; he felt like it would simply cook and fall off him like a pig roasted on a spit. And yet, he was trembling, shivering from some internal cold. Ciri was rubbing his brown with her thumb. He could feel her concern; it radiated outwards like a miasma.

“Your fever’s spiking,” she said worriedly as he gripped her arm with his good hand against a particularly vicious onslaught of nausea and shivers, “With any luck it’ll break before nightfall. How about I read while we wait? See if you can fall asleep. I’d give you something, but Eskel’s said no more poppy’s milk today.”

Something about Ciri’s tone, the calmness of it, helped settle Geralt’s restless mind. The way she spoke, it was as if they were doing nothing more than waiting for an ale in a tavern, not waiting for his life-threatening fever to break. He took a reedy breath and tried to settle back, although it was difficult to get comfortable when every inch of him felt bruised or broken. Ciri slipped a fresh, cooler pillow under his head. It was dry as well. He must have soaked the last one with sweat. 

“Better?”

“Mhmm.”

Geralt tossed and turned a bit as Ciri rifled around, presumably trying to find whatever book she had been reading. He wondered why her books were here. These weren’t her rooms. It was all so strange, and he was so hot, and if he didn’t stop moving he’d probably be sick but for some reason his limbs felt beyond his range of control at the moment.

There was a sharp burst of noise when Geralt choked back a gag, and Ciri was at his side in a second, propping him up as he heaved and choked at the pain of it. His ribs were fiery, grinding together like a mortar and pestle. He hadn’t eaten in several days, though, and there was nothing in his stomach to cough up. After a minute or so of miserable choking, Geralt slumped back against the pillow, exhausted and trying not to pant, while at the same time feeling panicked because he couldn’t get enough air in.

“Just let me read. It’ll distract you from the pain. That’s what my grandmother always told me. She made me read to her a few times, after she was wounded in battle. And…after my grandfather died. I read to her many nights then.”

Geralt swallowed uncomfortably. Ciri took a breath.

“The sea heaved like the bellows of a great forge…”

Geralt found himself drifting beyond the realms of consciousness before Ciri was even finished the first sentence. He was tired, terribly so, and he ached from the fever. Her voice, what he could hear of it, was soft and gentle, lulling him to sleep. Outside, the birds were singing the tunes he recognized as the evening chatter of Kaer Morhen. If he focused, Geralt could almost see the sun setting through his window. This was odd; Geralt had never been able to properly visualize things in the way that others did. Dandelion had often bemoaned this, expressing great sorrow over the Witcher’s lack of an “inner eye”, as he had called it. Geralt had always rolled his eyes and such frivolity, but now, as he could picture the sun setting in his mind’s eye, he wondered why he had never tried this before. It was truly lovely.

Eventually, the feverish meanderings of his mind turned to the slow, sluggish thoughts that directly proceeded a loss of consciousness. And then, Geralt drifted off, like the woman in Ciri’s book, adrift in the open sea.

\----

Ciri couldn’t pinpoint the exact moment when Geralt fell asleep. Only that when she looked up, his face was slack, his rasping breaths a bit more even. She smiled softly and shut the book with a soft slap, setting it down and reaching over to test Geralt’s temperature. She frowned when there was no change. Eskel had said they would have to be patient, but Ciri was afraid. She couldn’t imagine Geralt dying now. Not after everything. Not after the fact that he apparently remembered what had happened, and appeared to forgive her. Her heart truly felt lighter than it had in days, although there was a part of her that was frightened it was false hope. After all, Geralt had not said she was forgiven. They had not addressed the topic at all. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

Ciri brushed a sweaty bit of hair that kept curling over Geralt’s forehead back to its rightful place on his pillow. He was so sweaty and pale. She hoped desperately that he would be better tomorrow. Ciri wasn’t sure she could bear another day of watching him fight delirium and fever, gasping in pain at every movement through lungs that barely supported him. Eskel had said that his lungs would heal, that she had probably saved his life. But that it would take time, and they would have to be careful not to allow fluid to sit in his lungs for too long, lest he get ill while he was still so weak. Ciri sighed tiredly. She wished things were different, so desperately. She would much have preferred not having to pay this price for Geralt to show her some affection. It was a steep price to pay for love. Especially when she was the architect of it all. Her and her stupidity.

Satisfied Geralt would neither overheat nor get too cold during the night, Ciri curled back into the armchair by the fire and dragged a threadbare blanket over herself. Geralt’s quarters were barren, devoid of everything except the bare necessities for staying in Kaer Morhen during the winter. As she lay listlessly, trying to fall asleep, Ciri made a list of things that she would bring here to brighten it up once Geralt was feeling a bit better, if she had the courage to do such a thing. He would be staying here for much longer than usual this year, what with the nature of his injuries and the fact that Nilfgaard was currently scouring every village on the Continent looking for Ciri. Some candles, a few books, perhaps a rug. Those would make this place feel more like home. They were things Ciri missed from Cintra, small pleasures that were not necessary but that had always made her smile. Now that she felt she had bridged the seemingly impenetrable chasm of confusion between herself and her father surprise, she wanted to share those things with him. She could remember her grandmother lighting candles in her chamber when she had had fever. Reading to her when she couldn’t sleep. Bringing her to lie on a rug by the fire when the nights were long and cold and full of the icy winds off the Skelligan seas. 

As she drifted off, Ciri almost thought she could hear the waves crashing against the distant shoreline, enmeshing her two homes into one seamless whole, lulling her gently as the sun sank below the mountain passes high above.


	8. Wait

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Ciri continue to recover. Eskel and Ciri discuss the events of the trip. Ciri is worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay for a two chapter kinda week! Hopefully you guys are all taking care out there. Once again, thank you from the BOTTOM of my heart for all the sweet comments and kudos on the last chapter. That stuff makes my day. And as always, thank you to RoachIsJudgingYou for taking time out of their busy schedule to read over my musings *hugs*.
> 
> Enjoy!

Eskel and Vesemir were with Ciri the next time she opened her eyes. It must have been near midnight, and the moon was casting its ghostly rays across the Morhen Valley and through Geralt’s open window. It left the whole room in pallid shadow, and emphasized the hollow, sickly look of Geralt’s cheeks. Ciri drew a finger across one of them, mostly to make sure they were still warm. Happily, she discovered that they were no longer overcome with the burning, raging heat that had been working its way through Geralt’s flesh yesterday. She sighed a bit. There was still sweat prickling on his brow, but it seemed to be the normal sweat of healing from ghastly wounds on a warm spring night. Ciri settled back, content and relaxed. And then nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw Eskel and Vesemir, leaned against either side of the mantlepiece like twin watchdogs, staring at her silently. She cursed under her breath, not wanting to seem disrespectful, particularly towards Vesemir, who was first and foremost her teacher.

“Sleep well?” There was a glimmer of mirth in Eskel’s voice that set Ciri more at ease. She flashed him a tired smile.

“Better than I have in a while.”

“Good,” Vesemir pushed himself off the wall and moved towards her gracefully, eyes bearing down on her even as she yawned, “Because we have some questions we need answers to. And you’re currently the only one who can provide them.”

Ciri felt her heart drop down to the bottoms of her still aching feet. In her relief that Geralt did not seem to blame her for the occurrence on the mountain, she had nearly forgotten she would still have to explain herself to the other Witchers of Kaer Morhen. A small tear pricked at the back of her eyelid, but Ciri dismissed it, well practiced in the art of keeping all visible emotions under wraps from the years she had spent in the great hall, holding court with her grandmother.

“Of course.” Almost without realizing it, Ciri slipped back into her courtly ways. The voice of mildly disinterested concern. The eyes, levelled to make contact with the speaker’s without feeling threatening. Her hand tapped a soft rhythm on the armrest of her chair, a habit of Calanthe’s that she had picked up and manifested under duress. Once, her grandmother had told her it was healthy to have such a habit. A way of relieving stress without letting on to anyone else in the room that that was what you were doing. Court life was like a game of cards, she had said. Never give away your hand, lest you lose all you hold dear. Never had Ciri felt the immediacy of that piece of advice more than she did now. She straightened her back a little bit. Vesemir’s steady golden gaze bored into her own.

“What happened out there? We’ve never had a hunter as experienced as Geralt return in such a state before. The valley Geralt took you to is a dangerous place, but one he’s navigated successfully on his own hundreds of times.”

There was no note of accusation in Vesemir’s tone, just concern and curiosity. Ciri felt her heart squeeze a little in her chest. She twisted her hands anxiously in her lap, and tried not to break the steady eye contact she was holding, even though every nerve in her body was screaming at her to run.

“I…I made a mistake. There was a bear, high up on a glacier. Geralt asked me to explain to him why we would be safe to go up there, and I guessed, but I was wrong, and when I went to shoot it, there was an avalanche, and…he pushed me out of the way. The snow took him instead.”

It seemed to Ciri that her tale was pitifully short for the amount of mental energy and fear she had put into it. At some point during her small outburst, she had stopped looking at Vesemir and was now staring pointedly out the window. The uncomfortable feeling of sweat dripping from her underarms down her sides served to distract her a bit from the sadness and fear she felt. Shivers ripped through her, though it was a warm night.

There was a long silence, during which Ciri did not dare look up from her fixed point between two faraway peaks, through which the moonlight shone. She could hear Geralt breathing, a bit more easily now, and wondered why Eskel and Vesemir had chosen to do this here, where he was trying to rest and recover. Perhaps they had not expected such an explosive outcome.

Finally, at long last, Vesemir drew breath.

“How did you get him out?”

Ciri’s eyes snapped back to his, and if his countenance had been intimidating before, he now had the appearance of a hawk about to pounce on its prey. More sweat dripped down Ciri’s sides, and she wrapped her arms around herself, knowing Vesemir and Eskel were able to smell her sweat and fear. 

“I…I don’t know.”

Something crackled in the back of Ciri’s mind. The otherworldly presence that had occupied her since that night on the mountain rippled a bit, as though sensing her mind turning towards it. It reached out a small, warm tendril into her mind, and all at once, Ciri felt herself relax. Now was not the time. Not now, while Geralt was wounded and Vesemir and Eskel were worn thin trying to care for the two of them. There would be a time, the presence reassured her. But it was not today.

“I was barely awake. I remember…digging through the snow. He must have been fairly close to the surface. The snow was packed hard though, it was probably crushing him.”

Vesemir appraised her for a moment, but Ciri still felt nothing but an unerring calm. Her breathing, her heart, were all even and gentle, as if she had just woken from a refreshing sleep. She could feel him listening to her, trying to detect a lie. But there was none. Her body betrayed nothing.

“Very well.”

Ciri cocked her head questioningly. Her fear was beginning to return now in spades, and Vesemir’s seeming indifference was disarming and strange to her, especially after her obvious indiscretions. She noticed Eskel’s mouth quirk upwards from his place by the fire.

“Ciri, we’ve all done something like this. For fuck’s sake, I was barely older than you when I left one of the old masters in the forest without a guide, not realizing he had been blinded by a gryphon while he was still on the Path. It took him hours to navigate his way home on scent alone, and he was none too happy when he did arrive. In that time, I felt twenty lashes for my carelessness. But we’ve all softened a bit with age. Besides, you saved Geralt’s life. He never would have survived such injuries to his lungs without someone there to help him. If anything, he and all of us are in your debt.”

Vesemir shot Eskel a look at this last bit, but he approached her, heedless. His hand gripped her shoulder in a brotherly way, and he nodded with a grave look in his eyes, as though Ciri had just passed through some important rite of passage. A small smile flitted across his lips, and she was reminded of making Geralt smile on their journey back. She hoped he would still smile like that when he was no longer fevered and ill. It had been a good feeling, to know she could bring him joy and make him laugh.

Vesemir left after that, apparently having collected all the information he needed. Eskel settled himself on the rug in front of the fire after checking Geralt’s wounds, making pleased sounds to himself upon finding the fever had died down.

“He will be alright, won’t he?” Ciri couldn’t quite keep the quavering note from her voice. After all her worrying, she felt very overwhelmed. Part of her worried this was all a dream, and tomorrow she would awaken banished from the keep.

“Of course he will. His fever’s broken, his breathing is much better. All that’s left is for the broken bones to heal. Even in Witchers, that takes a while. I’d guess two weeks before he can walk properly on that ankle again, and his ribs and arm stop paining him. The ankle will take the longest; it was set horrendously. I’m surprised there’s any connective tissue left.”

“He was nearly asleep when he did it. I should have insisted on helping him. I’d never set an ankle bone before. I suppose I was frightened.”

“I think there was more to your fear than that.”

Eskel’s piercing gaze met Ciri’s, and she resisted the urge to look away. It was humiliating, to admit she’d been frightened of Geralt. Not just physically, but also of giving him power over her emotions. Of giving him the power to cause her pain.

“I don’t blame you, you know,” Eskel continued, “After what’s happened to you. I wouldn’t allow myself within a five mile radius of anyone who offered me help if I knew Nilfgaard was scouring the whole Continent for me, killing all those who were important to me on the way.”

Ciri cast her eyes down. There were many things she was willing to speak of with Eskel, but this was not one of them. When the time came, she would confide in Geralt. But not to Eskel. Not before her father.

“He should be waking soon,” Eskel deftly changed the subject, clearly sensing Ciri’s discomfort, “I’ll leave you with him, but I won’t go far. He may be confused when he wakes, and I don’t want him to hurt you accidentally. Just call if you need anything.”

Ciri nodded her thanks and watched Eskel’s back retreat, carrying some of the healing supplies and bloodied rags with him. It had been a long few days; there had been no time to clean, and the room was strewn with blood and bandages, herbs and oils. The whole place stank. Frowning, Ciri dusted some sage off the floor and blew it into the fire. If she were Geralt, she would not want to wake up in a place that stank like an apothecary. She would want to wake up feeling as close to normal as possible. So, arming herself with a willow-branch broom she found leaning in a corner of the room, Ciri set about sweeping all the cast off herbs into the hearth, scrubbing oils and blood off the floors. The whole place reeked, now with the metallic stench of dried blood as well. But the floors were relatively clean, and the herbs had mostly gone up in a plume of very pungent smoke. Ciri wiped her sweaty hair out of her face and sat back on her knees, reflecting that her grandmother would probably have given her a good hard slap if she had seen her scrubbing floors in a dilapidated keep in the mountains.

The sun was nearly risen by this point, and Ciri found some bread and water discarded by the mantle that would do for breakfast. She had not had much appetite since returning. Her mind was still reeling from how well Eskel and Vesemir had taken the news of what had happened. She felt as though she should still be in agony about it, and yet there was no one else who needed to forgive her. Although Geralt had not said as much. There was still a chance that when he fully returned to himself, he would berate her and throw her out. But something about Eskel’s reaction to what had happened made Ciri doubt that Geralt would do such a thing.

Ciri passed the morning nibbling at the bread with little interest, and reading from a book of poetry she had discovered on one of Geralt’s shelves. It struck her as odd, to find such a book here. Witchers had no time for frivolities like the liberal arts. The inscription inside made her equally as curious, a small note written in elegant cursive, wishing Geralt a safe journey home and a happy solstice, signed from someone named Dandelion. Ciri had heard of a bard who went by that name. He had appeared in one of the books she and Eskel had read while tracing her family’s lineage; he was the bard who had played at her mother’s fateful betrothal feast. However, Ciri could hardly imagine Geralt spending time with a bard, let alone becoming close enough with one to be given such a fine and expensive gift. The spine had been unbroken when Ciri had opened it up, so whoever had given it to Geralt, he had never opened it. It smelled new, of calf’s skin bindings and the freshness of newly pressed parchment. It reminded Ciri of her tutor’s classroom in Cintra. She had fond memories of sitting in that room, reading and soaking in knowledge of every possible subject she could get her hands on. It had been a long time since she had had so much uninterrupted time to read, and part of her relished in it.

Geralt tossed and turned throughout the morning, but he never truly woke. Every once in a while he would murmur something; vestigial effects of the fever were still clearly in effect. Occasionally, he would reach up and grip at his shoulder with a grimace of pain. On those times, Ciri would take his hand and gently guide it back down to his side. There was no use in allowing him to worry at his wounds when he wasn’t truly aware that he was causing himself more pain. He always fell back into a deep sleep as soon as Ciri let go of his hand, for which she was extremely grateful. After so many days of being so ill and fevered, Geralt needed all the rest he could get. 

It wasn’t until noon, when Ciri was gnawing on the final nub of stale bread, that Geralt truly woke up. She had moved to sit at the window; the sun was high in the sky and she was enjoying watching the birds flit from tree to tree. The book of poetry, long finished, languished above the mantle. Ciri would have gone to fetch more, but she was loathe to leave Geralt alone. She had told him she would stay with him, and she had known him long enough to understand that such a promise would be one he would take very seriously.

However much she was expecting him to awaken, Ciri nearly jumped out of her skin when he actually did. Whatever noises Geralt might have made as he began waking were drowned out by the cacophonous mating calls of eager young birds that filled the air. Ciri turned around to take a sip of water, and saw Geralt, eyes squeezed shut in a way that definitely did not look restful, good hand clutching miserably at his shoulder. She stood so abruptly she knocked over the chair she had been sitting on, and it fell backwards with a wooden crash, making Geralt start and Ciri hurry to his side.

“Gods, I’m sorry. You could have said something, though. When you woke. I didn’t expect you to just lie there in silence, suffering, when I was right here.”

Geralt had now opened his eyes, and was squinting up at her tiredly. His eyes were drifting a bit, and Ciri got the sense that the ability to focus was still beyond him. She was a bit taken aback. Geralt had had a fever that would have killed an ordinary man, but part of her had expected him to bounce back immediately, invincible as ever. It was slightly uncomfortable to confront the fact that even Witchers had their limits. 

“Do you want something for the pain? I can go get Eskel…I don’t know enough about herbs to give it to you myself.”

Geralt shook his head minutely, although his face was still pale and his breathing thready and fast.

“No…it’ll just…make me tired.”

Ciri rather wanted to point out that that probably wasn’t a terrible thing. Geralt looked exhausted already, and he had barely awoken. But she relented, mostly because seeing her usually invincible father in such a state was crushing. She wanted nothing more than to have Geralt as he normally was back. Perhaps with a few of the changes they had encountered on their trip, they could even be close. Ciri so badly wanted that, though she felt selfish for it. Geralt was clearly far too poorly to be worrying about such trivialities as his relationship with her. 

“Alright. Shall I read some more? Or build up the fire? Perhaps you’d like something to eat?”

Ciri knew she was scrambling now, trying desperately to show how much she cared for him as soon as possible. But she couldn’t help it; she needed him to know that she was there for him. That she wanted to be his daughter, to stand by him. Echoes of her comparison of herself and Geralt as matched blades flashed through her head. She hoped she would be able to prove to Geralt that she was his daughter in all but blood, that she was the quick dagger to his strong, capable sword.

For his part, Geralt blinked a little, clearly trying to take in and sort all the options she had just presented him with. Ciri wanted to slap herself. He was still sick and exhausted. Best not to overdo it.

“I’ll build up the fire,” she settled on, “And bring you some water. You’ll tell me if you need anything else, yes?”

He nodded tiredly and turned his head a little, clearly trying to find a more comfortable position without moving his various wounded appendages. Ciri wished she could help, but anything other than lying flat on his back would only aggravate his wounded side right now. She had a sense that he knew that as well; any efforts he made to roll over were halfhearted at best.

Stirring the fire a bit, Ciri breathed a bit easier when she felt the warmth of it flood the room. It was still cool in the mountains; barely warm enough for her. Surely, whatever was warm enough for her would not be good enough for a man who had been nearly on death’s doorstep not that long ago.

Approaching again with a mug of water, Ciri settled herself easily on the edge of the lumpy mattress.

“Better? I thought it might be too cold in here.”

Geralt nodded again, flopping frustratedly back against the pillows as he tried and failed to raise himself on his good elbow.

“I can help. You’ve barely broken your fever, stop overdoing it.”

Ciri tried her best to tip the water into Geralt’s mouth without slopping it all over him, and succeeded for the most part. She felt like she was turning into her grandmother, all authoritative tones and disapproving statements. The thought frightened her a bit.

By the time she had helped Geralt with the water and settled back down next to him, he was nearly drifting off again, eyes falling shut and then blinking open. Ciri had propped him up on her shoulder to give him the water; she was not nearly strong enough to hold his weight with her arms alone. Now, as he fell back asleep, his head drooped to rest entirely on her shoulder, and Ciri couldn’t find it in her heart to wake him and extricate herself. This was probably the first real sleep he had had since they left, or at least the first one entirely unencumbered by fever. His breath was warm on her neck, and there were salty tracks on his cheeks from the sweat of his illness. Reaching over, Ciri grabbed a cloth and soaked it in the water from the pitcher on Geralt’s bedside table. She had vague memories of her grandmother washing her face after a particularly bad bout of fever as a child. Now, as she gently ran the cloth over Geralt’s pale features, she couldn’t help but feel as though she was offering up some sort of thanks to Calanthe. He exhaled a bit, clearly too far gone to realize exactly what was happening, and allowed Ciri to wipe the sweat off his face as he slowly fell back asleep.

Eskel found them like this many hours later, Ciri having fallen asleep with her head resting on top of Geralt’s. He had to suppress a smile; Ciri’s mouth was open and she was snoring exceptionally loudly, and Geralt had clearly just shifted his head; his left cheek was reddened and covered with indents that matched the stitching on Ciri’s shirt. Clearly, whatever frustrations both Geralt and Ciri had come to him with about their interactions with one another, it had taken a turn towards healing. As much as it pained Eskel to think of Geralt being injured, and of Ciri caring for him alone in the wilderness, it had clearly done the two of them some good. He smiled wryly. It was just like Geralt to need a brush with death to see what was truly important. 

Very gently, Eskel extricated the nearly dried cloth from Ciri’s limp grip and placed it on the bedside table. Carefully, so as not to disturb either of them, he eased Geralt back down so he was lying on his back. With his wounds, sleeping half-slumped upright would do him absolutely no good. He would awaken tomorrow morning sore and stiff enough. Ciri, though, he left as she was, leaning back against the wall. Then, he closed the windows and drapes, sensing a weight in the air that usually heralded a rainstorm. And he left the two of them in peace.

\----

It was morning the next time Geralt blinked his eyes open, and the first thing he noticed was that he was feeling much less ill than he last remembered. The salty sweat had been cleaned from his face, and the dull ache and pounding heat that had accompanied his fever were all but gone. He found he was able to look around, and his eyes focused far better. He still felt hazy and tired, and he was in a good deal of pain from what he vaguely remembered were a good amount of broken bones, but overall Geralt felt more coherent than he had in days.

Turning his head a little, he was immediately confronted by the tight weave of Ciri’s dark brown pants, and discovered her knee was nearly jammed into his face. Confused, he reached out his good hand and poked her tiredly, wondering how and why she had ended up curled up half-sagged off his bed.

Ciri grunted, and raised her head from where it was hanging over the edge of Geralt’s bed. Then, her eyes widened when she saw where she was and who had woken her up, and scrambled backwards, landing with a dull thump on the floor. Geralt tried to reach and catch her, forgot his left arm was broken, and ended up lying on his back, panting as his muscles and joints screamed. Ciri cursed and wiped some hair and drool off her face. She was still blinking sleepily, trying to make sense of her rude awakening.

“Fuck…” Geralt muttered, not really sure what to say and feeling quite idiotic for having woken her so gracelessly. Ciri snorted and picked herself up off the floor, dusting off her pants.

“It’s fine. I won’t notice any more bruises what with the lot I’ve got.”

Geralt felt a slight pang in his chest, and his eyebrows drew together. Ciri, sensing that was not the right thing to say, quickly backtracked.

“I’m fine. Just…you know…riding and such.”

She waved her arm vaguely in the air, looking thoroughly frustrated with herself. Geralt shrugged it off, tried to maneuver himself upright, and failed miserably. He fell back, panting.

“Gods, this is the first time you’ve been more than slightly coherent in days. Perhaps we start slowly, yes?”

Geralt sighed, and allowed Ciri to move some pillows around and prop him up. Unsurprisingly, his arm twinged with every movement, and he did his best to hide that reaction from her. It would do her no good to see how much pain he was in. Pain was always something he was responsible for handling on his own.

Once Geralt was leaning back against the pillows, trying to quell his nausea while simultaneously not letting on what he was doing, Ciri took a step back and appraised him. One colourless eyebrow raised disapprovingly. Part of Geralt was a bit shocked. Several months ago, Ciri would never have been so outright in her disapproval. She had been quiet, demure always, saddened beyond belief and probably more than a little frightened of the Witcher she had found herself with. In some ways, Geralt much preferred this. It felt more honest, more like who he believed Ciri really was. It also made him feel less like he was something to be feared, and more like someone she could look up to. That was what being a father was, wasn’t it? He had always looked up to and admired Vesemir, the closest thing to a father he had ever had. But he had feared Vesemir as well, dreadfully, especially before his Trials. Geralt didn’t want Ciri to feel that fear. It had hindered him so much, and he didn’t want the same thing to happen to her. Didn’t want to lose her the way Vesemir had, in many ways, lost him. Though, granted, that situation had been complex for entirely different reasons.

Geralt realized he must have lost himself in his thoughts, because Ciri was talking and he hadn’t taken note or responded. She was staring at him, concernedly.

“I can tell you’re in pain, even if you stare straight ahead and refuse to answer me. I’m getting Eskel.”

Geralt still felt too tired to argue with her, and simply leaned his head back as she hurried out into the hallway. There was a surprised exclamation, and both Ciri and Eskel returned a moment later. Geralt cracked an eye to see Ciri rubbing her nose and sporting a large red stain down her front.

“Sorry,” she muttered, “Should’ve been paying better attention.”

Eskel waved her off and set down the tray he’d been carrying on the bedside table. Ciri must have knocked over the jam, which Geralt was perfectly fine with. The scent of the toast was enough to make him nauseous. Eskel checked over his wounds while Ciri ate a little and drank some tea, though she stopped when Eskel got to Geralt’s shoulder and side.

“Ciri, I might need your help here.”

Geralt was about to protest, but he was aware enough of his own limits to know he would be of very little help at the moment. His head felt impossibly heavy on his neck, and his muscles felt like a newborn colt’s as Eskel helped him roll on his side. Tiredly, he found his head pressed into Ciri’s lap, her hands carding through his hair, probably to distract from the pain. She stopped when they made eye contact, drawing herself away and looking guilty.

“Sorry…it helped when you were ill. I should have asked.”

Geralt blinked, confused. One moment, she was imperiously ordering him about, and the next she was a trembling wreck, frightened even to touch him. He resolved to ask Eskel about it the next time they got a moment alone together. His brother was far better versed in such things than he was. Ciri’s constant changes in demeanour were giving him a headache.

“It’s fine. Feels good.”

He tried to offer her reassurance even though his face was contorted by a grimace as Eskel abruptly tightened the bandages around his broken ribs. Breathing came a lot easier once they were supported, but the whole ordeal was a deeply unpleasant one. Ciri’s hands returned, more cautious this time, fiddling back and forth along Geralt’s scalp. He hummed a little, trying to let her know it was alright. She had been right, it took his mind off the pain.

By the time Eskel was nearly done bandaging Geralt’s arm, he had nearly fallen asleep. Ciri had to shake him a bit, and he blinked tiredly. He hated the exhaustion that accompanied severe injuries. After a whole night of sleeping, Geralt’s mind told him it was time to get up, to stop lying about. When he was unable, it sent him into a state of deep unrest. 

“Eskel’s left your arm just in a sling, now you’re awake more. Be careful when you’re moving, it’s still very badly bruised and you shouldn’t be moving it at all.”

At some point, Eskel must have left, leaving Geralt and Ciri alone. He tested his left arm, and found it to be a bruised mess. Grimacing in discomfort, he tried to settle back on the cushions so Ciri could leave as well.

“You don’t need to worry about me moving it. I don’t think I could if I wanted to at the moment. You should go…go get a book. Or take a bath. When was the last time you left?”

Geralt’s small speech left him panting and exhausted, and Ciri’s lips quirked fondly. She leaned over and brushed a little more hair from his face, pulling up the covers. Geralt hadn’t noticed he was shivering, and he clenched the blankets gratefully in his good hand. His eyes were falling shut, and his ears were ringing sharply.

“I may go take a bath, if you’re going to sleep. I probably smell horrible.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. Ciri smacked him lightly on the head, and he allowed himself a small, sleepy smile. An unusual expression for him, but he had noticed it becoming more common of late. Perhaps if he had been less tired he would have examined why, but at the moment, Geralt wanted nothing more than to go back to sleep.

“Sleep well,” he heard Ciri whispering and she rustled around, collecting her things to leave, “I’ll be back soon, but I’ll send Eskel up to sit with you while I’m gone.”

Geralt made a tired noise, just to let her know that he had heard her. A small part of his brain wanted to tell her he would be fine on his own for a little while, but he was so tired and the words simply wouldn’t come. Geralt was asleep before Ciri so much as opened the door to leave.

When he woke next, it was to the soft crackling of fire, and a sound that was unmistakably Eskel, muttering to himself as he sorted through odds and ends on Geralt’s bedside table. Geralt felt groggier than the last time he had awoken, probably due to the fact that he had clearly not slept for nearly as long this time. Ciri hadn’t even returned. Geralt considered his options; first and foremost, his body was demanding that he go back to sleep immediately. However, Geralt did not take well to spending the whole day lying flat on his back in bed, even when he was too tired and hurt to do anything else. Choosing to ignore his body’s urges for the moment, he opened his heavy eyelids tiredly. Eskel glanced down as Geralt blinked to clear his vision. Now that he could see a bit better, Geralt thought he caught a hint of a smile on Eskel’s lips.

“It’s good to see you again, brother. You’re looking much better. Any pain I should be aware of?”

Geralt cleared his throat a few times, trying to keep his coughing to a minimum. Every cough was agony on his lungs and ribs.

“The usual.” He managed to rasp. Eskel propped him up without comment until his breathing had returned back to normal. 

“I’ll get you something for that.”

There was something about Eskel’s businesslike tone and the way he treated Geralt as though nothing were different from usual that made Geralt feel far more at ease. He hated being reminded of his injuries. It only served to remind him that he had failed to protect himself. That he had been one step away from being too slow, from ending up dead. He nodded tiredly, staring up at the ceiling. As every inch of him wanted to be out of this room, to be able to walk down to the stables and see Roach. He sighed. It would be a long time before he was well enough to do that on his own.

Eskel returned to Geralt’s side and gave him a glass, which he thankfully managed to drink without spilling all over himself. He was relieved to discover it was just willow bark tea. While willow bark was not nearly as effective as the opiates Eskel had had him drugged on for the last few days, it would allow him to remain alert. Geralt shot him a thankful glance, and he nodded, having been in a similar position himself more times than he cared to count. 

Once Geralt had settled back down on the pillows and Eskel in the chair next to him, Eskel glanced at him, long and hard.

“How do you feel? About the trip, I mean. Did it accomplish what you wanted? Despite…well, despite all this?”

Eskel gestured nebulously at Geralt, and he steeled himself, preparing for a conversation that was far above the capabilities of his far too foggy head.

“I…I think so. It’s hard to tell. She’s so…difficult to read.”

“Geralt, you think everyone is difficult to read. Did you manage to get to know her a bit better? Find out what she enjoys? What’s important to her?”

Geralt nodded tiredly. He found himself wishing Ciri was back. He had enjoyed her reading to him. It was easier on his exhausted mind.

“I’ll leave you be, you look exhausted. I should have waited until you were feeling more yourself before I asked about it. I just know how you hate to be reminded of your wounds.”

Geralt shrugged, trying not to nod off. He didn’t want to fall asleep before Ciri returned. His ankle ached fiercely, and he wished he could lean down to adjust it, but any strain on his torso would likely send him back into unconsciousness at the moment. Oddly enough, he felt more comfortable asking for Ciri’s help than for Eskel’s at the moment. Ciri had been the one who had sewed him back together in the wilderness, who had been there for him through the worst of this particular bout of injury. Eskel was family, but Ciri was his daughter. It was odd, realizing he was more comfortable displaying weakness around her now. Barely a week ago, the thought of showing any lack of strength to her would have made him curl up in revulsion. Perhaps his change of heart was due to the fact that he now knew she was capable. That she could handle the sight of such things. That she would not think less of him for it. In fact, she seemed to think more of him now. It was utterly bemusing.

At some point during his musings, Geralt’s eyes must have slipped shut, and he roused himself with a start. Eskel glanced up from sharpening one of his many knives, amused.

“You know, you don’t have to keep yourself awake. Did it ever occur to you that perhaps your exhaustion is your body’s way of telling you it needs sleep to heal.”

“I’ve slept enough.”

“Clearly your body says otherwise.”

Geralt just shot Eskel a glare and focused on trying to keep his eyes open. The willow bark had begun to kick in, and the pain faded from the forefront of Geralt’s mind to no more than intense discomfort. Unfortunately, this made it harder for him to keep his eyes open, and by the time Ciri’s footsteps began echoing through the corridors, he was nearly fast asleep again. Eskel had, at some point, brought the blankets back up to his chin, and though Geralt would never admit it, he was grateful. His broken bones always ached more in the cold, a fact which Eskel knew only too well.

Ciri unlatched the door with a gentle click and slipped in silently, her leather boots scuffing softly on the dusty floor. Geralt cracked an eye and saw her give Eskel a small smile. Her arms were full of books, and her wavy hair hung in lank tendrils around her face, damp and curling from her bath. She dumped the books with a soft thump on Geralt’s dresser, which he noticed had been taken over entirely by Eskel’s healing herbs and Ciri’s used mugs and books. He wrinkled his nose in irritation. Unlike the two of them, he liked a minimal, clean space. Too much clutter gave him a headache. He resolved to ask Ciri to bring her dishes back to the kitchen when he was feeling a bit more awake. 

Once Ciri had settled her things down, she stretched out on the rug in front of the fire with the largest of the volumes she had brought with her, presumably from the library. Geralt opened his eyes the rest of the way and she smiled softly at him.

“Did you rest well?”

He shrugged tiredly and tried to hide a yawn, wanting to know how she was faring. The days since they had returned to Kaer Morhen must have been a whirlpool of emotions for her, a fact which would perhaps account for her changeable moods. 

“Fine. You?”

Ciri giggled and shrugged.

“I passed out a few days ago, and then woke this morning half falling out of your bed. So, decently.”

Eskel snorted quietly from his respective corner, but kept his thoughts to himself. He shot Geralt a small smile, though, and Geralt nodded back at him, taking his meaning.

“Come here.”

Geralt extended his good arm and shifted over as much as his wounds would allow. He winced a bit and Ciri hurried to his side, more to help him shift over than anything. She sought out another pillow and propped his ankle up on it worriedly.

“Is it bothering you much? Your ankle, I mean.”

Geralt shrugged.

“No more than it has been. Now come here.”

Ciri frowned and wrinkled her nose.

“What?”

“You just admitted you’ve not slept properly in days. From what I remember, you and Roach singlehandedly dragged me from the valley all the way back here. You need to sleep in a proper bed, and since you seem unwilling to return to your own, I’m offering you mine.”

Ciri backed up quickly, looking confused and a bit alarmed.

“You’re injured, Geralt. What if I rolled over onto you? What if you can’t sleep because I’m there? I’ve caused you enough damage.”

Her eyes were downcast now, cheeks flushed with guilt. Geralt noticed that Eskel was watching closely as well. He changed tactics. The whole negotiation was exhausting; Geralt wanted to fall back asleep. His eyes were beginning to slide shut of their own accord again.

“I’ve barely recovered from a bad fever and being near frozen alive under a foot of snow. I’m damn cold. You half fell onto the floor last night, and you didn’t manage to injure me more. Come here.”

Ciri shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Then, she stepped forwards and curled up next to Geralt, pulling the blankets over the two of them. The moment she laid down, she snuggled up tightly to him, sighing tiredly. Eskel stood and left, bidding them a good night. Once they were alone, the fire crackling, Geralt nearly asleep, his side and arm throbbing, Ciri took a breath.

“Geralt? Are you awake?”

“Hmmm.” Geralt tried to rouse himself. It was becoming increasingly difficult. His body’s demands for rest seemed never-ending these days. He felt heavy, barely conscious, and warmer than he had been in days, barring the days he had spent feverish and unconscious. Being naturally warm felt almost foreign at this point.

“I…just…well, I wanted to say thank you. I know you didn’t expect to get a child surprise, especially not a girl. You wouldn’t have had to come for me. You could have let me burn with Cintra, but you didn’t. You could have left me so many times on the road. You…well, you could have left me here, when you went hunting, and taken Eskel or Lambert. Things probably would have turned out far better for you then. But, you didn’t. And then, even after the mistakes I made, even after I almost got you killed, you forgave me. I wasn’t expecting that. And…I just, I’m grateful. It’s been a while since anyone put in the effort to be with me. My grandmother, she loved me, but she always had far larger things on her mind. So, well, thank you.”

Geralt smiled sleepily at her uncomfortable delivery. It reminded him far too much of himself, unable to get the words out whenever he was expected to say something important. That, or he said completely the wrong thing. He winced, thinking of Dandelion. Another failure. One he intended to rectify when he got the chance. 

“…Welcome.” He slurred sleepily, unable to put anymore effort into his words at the moment. He squeezed her shoulder gently, and she curled up tightly against his good side, sighing contentedly. Geralt wondered when the last time had been that someone had held her, and felt a strange desire to pull her closer. Visenna had never comforted him or held him as a small child, or if she had, he had all but forgotten. Whatever he had missed, he wanted to give to Ciri. Though, admittedly, he did not have the first idea how.

The embers were dying in the fireplace now, and with a sudden burst, rain began to patter against the windowpanes. Geralt was glad Eskel had had the presence of mind to close them before he left; Ciri’s breaths had evened out in sleep And Geralt had neither the heart to wake her nor the ability to get up and do it himself. He closed his eyes and allowed himself to drift for a while, trying to conjure up memories of his own childhood, of his time with Visenna. He had very few, and most of them were tainted by the fact that he always knew, no matter how she laughed with him or told him she loved him, that she would leave him in the end. Half asleep, hazed out on the pain of his broken bones and the soft crackling of the dying fire, Geralt decided he never wanted that for Ciri. No matter how much he struggled with her, no matter how much they had their differences. He didn’t want her to look back and think of him as another person who had left her. He would have to be more careful now, he realized. No more careless fights, no more leaving wounds to fester, because dying was a type of leaving as well. A kind with which Ciri already had far too much experience for a girl her age.

At some point, Geralt’s philosophizing musings turned to dark dreams, of a tall tower and a woman with a silver sword in her outstretched hand, disappearing into the depths of a lake. He slept fitfully, tossing and turning a bit. At one point he woke to find Ciri smoothing his hair, looking worried, but quickly faded back into dreams again. When he woke the following morning, Ciri was fast asleep on his shoulder, now dry hair splayed out on the pillow and shining a bit in the morning sunshine. Still tired, still aching, Geralt grimaced and tensed his muscles in a poor approximation of a stretch, feeling relieved when she did not stir. He rolled his ankle experimentally, and had to bite down hard on his lower lip to keep from groaning. Whatever damage his bones had sustained, they were clearly far from being healed. However, with Ciri curled tightly against him, for the first time in a long time, Geralt did not feel the overwhelming urge to get up, injuries be damned, and limp his way outside to see Roach. She snored a little, and there were dark bags under her eyes. Content to let her sleep for a while longer, Geralt lay and stared at the sun rising, until eventually his exhausted body pulled him back under again.


	9. Garden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri and Lambert spend some time together. Geralt is glad to see Ciri adjusting to life at the keep, though he wishes he could be a bigger part of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so, we have nearly reached the conclusion! I'm feeling very bittersweet about letting this story go; it's been my largest endeavour to date and something I've absolutely poured my heart and soul into. Every chapter I've written has been made from my heart, in large part inspired by my own personal experiences so...yikes! Needless to say I'm not sure I want to see it end. Perhaps I'll start writing a sequel after I'm done Whumptober (I'm nearly halfway through my works for that already)! 
> 
> Anyways, I want to thank you all so very much for your continued dedication and love for this work. It means the absolute world to me how kind and supportive you've all been. Thank you from the bottom of my heart! And, as always, please give an enormous hand to my beta reader RoachIsJudgingYou for reading through all my rapid-fire chapters! I'd be lost without you.
> 
> On a housekeeping note, the last chapter may be a little late, depending on how my Whumptober stuff is coming along. So thanks for your patience!

It never ceased to surprise Ciri just how quickly spring progressed. She remembered in Cintra, only a few days after her windows had stopped frosting over at night, there had been the first flowers of spring poking their sweet, small heads up from the newly warmed earth. There had been very little snow in Cintra; often a light dusting had been enough to bring the whole capital to a standstill. It had shocked Ciri, how easily the Witchers went about their daily tasks, even in the midst of some of the strongest blizzards during the final days of winter. But now that spring had arrived, Ciri could see that the Morhen Valley bore more similarities to her former home than she had previously thought. Already, the wildflowers that sprinkled the ground around the keep’s walls were in full bloom, dusting the new grass with a gentle burst of colour. In the main courtyard of the keep, there was a wide, grassy lawn shaded by several trees, and Ciri already had grand hopes of bringing in wildflowers to plant in it, to brighten the place up a bit. The feeling of being watched, of ghostly presences everywhere, did not diminish, but Ciri hoped that by bringing some colour back to Kaer Morhen, she could do her part to help the spirits of the Witchers killed in the sacking of the keep to rest. Eskel had told her it had been beautiful here, before the attack. That there had been stained glass windows, and flowers leftover from when the castle was an Elven outpost. He had spoken of it with a small smile on his face that had made Ciri’s heart ache. While she still found the keep beautiful as it was, there was a part of her that felt a strong desire to bring peace to whatever remained of the men killed in the sacking of the keep. And to bring peace to those who had survived it. She had, after all, survived the destruction of her own home, and took great comfort in the little things that reminded her of her former life. She could not imagine living constantly in the ruins of that life, with the only reminders being shattered windows and walls, and the bones of those she had loved. Hence, the colour, and her quest to bring some of that beauty back to this desolate place. Ciri wiped some sweat from her face with a muddy hand, and continued digging through the dirt, uprooting the grass to make beds for the flowers. She had many hours of work ahead of her to make her wildflower-filled vision of this courtyard a reality.

It had been four days since she and Geralt had ridden in through the gates of the keep after their fateful hunting trip. She had spent nearly that whole time at Geralt’s side, excluding the half hour during which she had taken a quick bath and collected some books from the library. The first few days, Geralt had been too incoherent to notice that she had taken no time to herself, a fact for which Ciri had been both extremely grateful and also upset by, see as it showed how poorly he had been feeling. But now that he was more himself, he had been quick to note that she hadn’t left his side in days. That morning, as she had stood with a groan and rubbed her leg muscles, sore from spending days sitting curled up either on Geralt’s bed or in the chair next to it, he had raised an eyebrow at her, face creasing in a frown.

“When was the last time you saw the sunlight?” He asked, wincing as he yawned; deep breaths still caused him a good deal of pain.

“I see it through your window every morning.” She replied smartly, and in return felt the full blast of Geralt’s glare. She turned to the side, allowing the sun streaming in through the open curtains to bathe her face.

“Go out for a bit. Find something to do. Take Aerra for a ride, or go run a path. Vesemir and I haven’t spent all this time training you simply so you could lose any progress you made the moment we aren’t both there to work with you anymore.”

Truly, there was a part of Ciri that had been aching, for days, to get back outside, to feel the hot sun on her back as she ran through the woods, or to feel sweat trickling down her sides from a long ride on Aerra. Vesemir had excused her from training for a week after their return, citing that she would need time to process what had happened. He had put it a bit less kindly, saying that putting a sword in her hand when her mind was otherwise occupied would be nothing short of suicidal. However, Ciri had to agree with him. She had been too busy trying to understand what had happened, and her new-found fatherly bond with Geralt, to focus on training.

“You’ll be alright? If I go?”

“I’m well enough, Ciri. Just waiting for my bones to mend. I don’t need someone by my side constantly.”

Ciri knew Geralt had meant it gently, but it still stung a bit. Sometimes, she wanted to help so badly that she ended up inserting herself where she was not wanted. Her grandmother had always told her she had a gentle heart. It was not a heart that could take not doing everything in her power to make things right. Even when she had been forgiven.

By this point, Geralt had managed to lever himself up on his good elbow, and, holding his ribs, was leaning back against the headboard of the bed. He shot her a pointed look, as if to prove that he was more than capable of looking after himself while she went for a ride. His eyes drifted to the book he had been reading, out of reach on the bedside table, and Ciri passed it to him without comment, raising her eyebrows in rebuttal.

“Eskel said you still need plenty of rest, that your body is still recovering from the fever and being out in the cold for so long. I would rather not come back to find you asleep head first in that book.”

“I know my limits, Ciri. Pass me that mug of water, before you go?”

Ciri obliged, filling it as much as she could. Geralt’s hands were still shaky, though he tried his best to hide it. She shifted from one foot to the other, feeling a bit at a loss, unsure of what to say. Finally, Geralt looked up from his book with an exasperated, if fond, sigh.

“Ciri, I’m not going anywhere. Go on.”

He made a shooing motion with his hand, gesturing at the door. Taking the hint, Ciri fled, grabbing some bread from the kitchens before finding herself in the open expanse of the courtyard. She stopped for a moment, considering whether she should take Aerra out for a ride. However, there was a part of her that was still deeply affected by what had happened on their hunting trip. Not to mention her legs were still abominably sore from sitting half on, half off Roach’s saddle all the way back to Kaer Morhen. No, she would leave a ride for another day, one when she no longer felt both so physically and emotionally strained about what had occurred. And so, Ciri had found herself in the courtyard, armed with a trowel, digging flowerbeds. Surely, her grandmother was tossing in whatever grave she had been given. Ciri shook her head, trying to push the image from her mind. It had never occurred to her that she did not know what had happened to Calanthe’s body. She did not care to wonder. However, it was these thoughts, which pressed down on her like the heaviness in the air before a storm, that kept her from truly being free of her past. She shuddered a bit, despite the warmth of the spring day, and went back to her digging. It would do no good to wonder. Surely, whatever had happened, it was not something that merited contemplation.

It was several hours before Ciri looked up and found herself sitting in the middle of a large, rectangular space that was cleared of grass, and full of tilled earth. She grinned in satisfaction. In Cintra, she had taken to gardening immediately. It was one of the few ladylike pursuits in which it was deemed acceptable to get oneself dirty. Ciri had many fond memories of returning to the palace with filthy hands and a grimy face, much to the consternation of her nurse and grandmother. Here, though, there was no one to reprimand her for the fact that her hands were blackened, with dark lines under every one of her nails. There was mud in her hair, and her once creamy breeches had turned greyish-brown.

The sound of boots clacking against the flagstones startled Ciri out of her contented musings. She looked up to see Lambert making his way across the lawn, looking absolutely thunderous.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Gardening.”

“You’ve dug up half the courtyard.”

“To plant wildflowers in. From outside the wall. You can help me, if you’d like.” Ciri shot Lambert a cheeky look. She had not seen him since she and Geralt had returned to Kaer Morhen, and she wondered if perhaps he had been avoiding her. After all, it had been him who had given her the warning about the strange creatures inhabiting the wilds, particularly in the valley they had been travelling to. It struck Ciri as odd that he had not stopped in to interrogate her about what had happened. Although, surely Eskel and Vesemir had filled him in on the details. Still, it surprised Ciri a bit that he hadn’t at least taken such a prime opportunity to mock her for her idiotic mistakes.

To her shock, Lambert shrugged and eased himself down on the grass next to her.

“The whole Keep’s been in chaos since you returned. I’ve got no one to train with, and I’ve spent the last week hunting and repairing the walls where I can. I’ve got nothing better to do now.”

Ciri gaped for a moment before tossing Lambert the trowel.

“Can you straighten out the edges? It looks badly trimmed at the moment. I’ll be right back; I need to get something from the kitchens.”

Lambert scrutinized the bed for a moment.

“It looks fine to me.”

“If you don’t want to help, you can fuck off and find something else to do.” Her interior motives for wanting to brighten up the keep were making Ciri feel a bit pricklier than usual. If Lambert found out her sudden gardening inspiration was meant to be a gift to the Witchers, living and dead, of the keep, he would never cease mocking her. Although, if you had asked her a few days ago if Lambert would ever willingly help her with something so menial as digging a flower bed, she would have answered with a vehement negative. Times did change.

Lambert knelt and began evening out the edges, while Ciri jogged off to the kitchen. It was mercifully empty, although the tantalizing smells told her that someone had been in here not too long ago. A faint smell of cinnamon wafted through the air. She kept a sharp ear out, not wanting anyone to walk in on her as she dug through the waste, seeking out scraps of vegetables and bits of eggshell, which she then transferred to a wooden bucket. Even Eskel would have his questions if he entered the kitchen to find Ciri digging through the rubbish, and she was not currently in the mood to explain her motives. When confronted with a task, Ciri approached it with a single-minded determination, to the exclusion of all else. She had often wondered if that single-mindedness was the only reason she was still alive. It had certainly served her well, in her months on the run from Nilfgaard. She hoped it would also serve her well in making Kaer Morhen feel a bit brighter, a bit more like home.

When she returned to the courtyard with a spring in her step, Lambert stopped his work and gave her a hardened glare.

“You tell anyone I helped you with this, Princess, and you’re finished.”

Ciri smiled sweetly at him.

“I wasn’t planning on it. Surely, though, you’ll accept my undying gratitude?”

She held out her hand mockingly in the way she would have had a peasant bent his knee with the intention to kiss it. Lambert grimaced and went back to his work. It heartened Ciri a bit, seeing him like this. When they had first met, any hopes she had had of even reconciling with his constantly sour demeanour had been nonexistent. However, in the recent weeks, he had been cracking a bit, offering her help and advice when he thought she needed it. She wondered if his visit down to the crypts had had anything to do with it. Certainly, he had been kinder to her since that day. Perhaps, whatever memories he had encountered down there, it had reminded him of what it was like to be human.

They went on in silence for some time, Ciri spreading the eggshells and other odds and ends she had unearthed in the kitchen while Lambert continued evening out the edges of the bed. Every once in a while, Lambert would curse when he made a mistake, and Ciri would look up and giggle a bit. He would glare at her, but there was no longer any true ire behind it. And so the afternoon shifted by, the sun raining fire in the sky at the highest point of the afternoon, then slowing its showering light as it crept back to hide its face behind the craggy mountain peaks. There were several moments when Ciri stopped and lifted her face, felt the chill mountain air, and for the first time since Cintra fell, she felt happy. Not just a little burst of joy, but happy in the way that made her feel like her breath had been stolen from her lungs, like she had been picked up and carried away on a breeze and left all her cares and weights far below on the ground. For the first time perhaps ever, Ciri felt entirely surrounded by people whom she could trust. It was a strange feeling. Foreign, almost, after years of the espionage and backstabbing that had plagued Cintra’s court.

Finally, the sun was no more than embers in the sky, casting long orange shadows over the valley. Lambert stood up and stretched; Ciri winced sympathetically when she heard his muscles and joints pop in protest.

“I hope you’re happy.” He sneered, but as usual, there was no real venom in his words. 

“Very much so. Thank you for your help…with any luck, I can bring some flowers from outside tomorrow, and have this bed planted before the week is done. It’ll be beautiful, don’t you think?”

Ciri hadn’t expected a real answer. She was still struggling to understand just what the different Witchers saw as beautiful. For Geralt, it seemed to be a set of blade, well polished and utilitarian. For Eskel, the satisfaction of a job completed, of a hunt successfully finished. But Lambert was enigmatic, with his constantly changing moods and perceptions of the world and the people around him. Not to mention he had never allowed Ciri close enough for her to even begin to gain an understanding of what made him who he was. But now, he stepped back and considered their work, a serious look on his face. When he turned and faced her, Ciri found herself at a loss, unable to read the myriad of emotions on his face.

“It looks…elven,” he finally settled on, eyebrows drawing together in a focused gaze, “Like how it would have, before we came here.”

Ciri wondered if there was something left unsaid in his words. She desperately hoped there was, but that was her flaw, always searching for more in words where the only meaning was the one that was meant at face value.

She dusted her hands together noisily, intentionally breaking the heavy, spellbound silence.

“Supper?”

Lambert nodded, and took the lead, setting a punishing pace that only reminded Ciri that she had not eaten since breakfast. She hoped Geralt had passed the day well; part of her felt extremely guilty for getting so caught up in her work that she had nearly forgotten about him. She supposed, though, that that might well have been his intention.

In the kitchens, Eskel was eating some bread with a few slices of meat laid on top. He nodded at Ciri, mouth too full to greet her properly. She found that he had made a similar dinner for the other inhabitants of the keep, laid out carefully on the board ledge that served as the food preparation surface. She thanked him, and slid down on the bench, noticing that Lambert had taken his own dinner and vanished.

“Where does he go?” She asked around a mouthful of bread. Eskel swallowed his own and shot her a reprimanding glance, which she paid little heed. He shrugged.

“Usually to the walls. It’s too cold in the winter, but in the summer and spring we usually go our own ways to eat. These times would normally be spent repairing the keep. When the time comes to make dinner, tempers are usually fraying. And Lambert is nothing if not a creature of habit.”

Ciri did not bother mentioning that he had very definitely broken his habits to help her in the courtyard today. Eskel had probably smelled the fresh dirt on him, seen the dark lines under his nails. 

“Does it bother you, then, that I eat with you?”

“You have your ways. We have ours. Witchers are creatures of habit, and many of us barely remember the last time a new inhabitant lived in this keep. It’s good, to see a new way of doing things. Reminds us that our way isn’t the only one.”

“Try telling Geralt that.”

“He’ll come around. I think you’ve already seen that happening. Besides, I’m fairly sure he’s mostly put off by your noisy chewing.”

Ciri contemplated tossing the rest of her dinner at Eskel, but decided that such actions were far too juvenile for her now. She settled on giving him a steady glare instead. He grinned a bit, smile lopsided from the tightness of his scars.

“Do those hurt?” Ciri asked cautiously, well aware that she was venturing into dangerous territory, but emboldened after her afternoon spent with Lambert, “They look sore, when you smile like that.”

Eskel reached up and touched his face, as though he had forgotten the scars were there at all. He traced on absentmindedly, thinking.

“No, they don’t hurt. Well, I suppose they do sometimes, when it’s cold or when I turn my head too quickly. But it’s more of a stretching pain, not a ripping, like what you’re thinking. My skin has grown used to its limitations. It’s only when I try to overextend them that it reprimands me.”

“Creatures of habit, indeed.”

“Indeed.”

They ate the rest of their dinner in silence, Ciri suddenly very conscious of her chewing. When she was finished, Eskel cleared her plate and washed it, passing it back to her to dry. Then, he sliced another piece of bread and filled a mug with water, setting both objects on a plate to bring upstairs.

“Geralt’s alright today?” Ciri asked, following him closely as they made their way through the winding maze of identical hallways and spiral staircases. 

“Tired. I know his ankle is bothering him, but he’d never admit that it’s causing him pain. And he’ll only lose his temper if I offer him anything for it. So, about as well as can be expected. He wanted to get up and go for a ride. I told him he could sit in the chair by the fireplace tomorrow, if he wanted. It’ll be better for his lungs, to move around a bit. Keep there from being too much fluid building up in them.”

Ciri nodded, grimacing a bit at the thought of Geralt riding Roach in his current condition. For someone whose profession required him to be constantly in tune with what his body was telling him, the man could be woefully ignorant. 

When they arrived outside Geralt’s door, Eskel knocked gently, but there was no answer. Ciri felt another small pang of sadness. Normally, the smallest of disturbances would waken Geralt instantly. It was truly a testament to how poorly he was still feeling that he could sleep through Eskel rapping at his door. 

Eskel pushed the door open gently, and Ciri had to smile a little when she saw Geralt, who appeared to have fallen asleep halfway through reading. His book was splaying haphazardly across his chest, good arm flopped almost dramatically over his forehead. He was shivering a bit though, and Ciri hurried forwards and covered him with the blankets, closing the open window. Despite all his protestations, the cold of the mountain was clearly still affecting him. Ciri wondered if he would ever recover the ability to regulate his body temperature as effectively as he had before, and a spear of guilt shot through her heart at the thought. 

He stirred a bit when Ciri pulled the blanket over him, but still did not waken. Even when Eskel carefully pulled his ankle back up onto the pile of pillows that he had rolled off of, Geralt did not stir. Ciri shot Eskel a concerned look, but he simply shrugged.

“Any human who put his body through such an ordeal would be dead by now. It will take days before he’s back to himself, even with his ability to heal.”

Ciri nodded, though she still felt deeply disturbed by seeing Geralt in such a state. He tugged the blankets up higher in his sleep, wrapping them around himself to quell the shivers and wincing when he accidentally caught his bad arm. Ciri rubbed her thumb comfortingly across his forehead as a frown creased his face and he opened his eyes a bit.

“Shhh, go back to sleep. It’s just Eskel and I. You don’t need to wake up.”

Geralt blinked at her a few times, clearly very disoriented and more asleep than awake.

“Hmmm…m’shoulder hurts.” He slurred the words out sleepily before rolling over and allowing his eyes to fall shut again. Ciri glanced at Eskel again.

“Are you sure he’s alright?” She whispered, heart pounding a bit faster, “He seems barely there. He was so much better this morning.”

Eskel nodded.

“He spent most of today awake, reading. That’s the first whole day he’s gone without falling asleep. It’s not surprising he’s disoriented, he’s probably exhausted.”

The explanation made sense, but Ciri, always expecting the worst case scenario, couldn’t help but continue to feel nervous. She pressed the back of her hand to Geralt’s forehead, feeling incredibly thankful when she felt no fever there. Geralt was just exhausted, and though Ciri partly wished he would wake up and have something to eat, she could not begrudge him his rest. It had been a difficult few days for them all. 

Turning from Geralt, who was now sleeping peacefully again, Ciri snatched a blanket off the armchair and curled up with it in front of the fire. The sun had long since set, and she was very tired as well. Eskel was mixing together some herbs at the table, making a tea for whenever Geralt woke up. The fire was crackling in the background, a constant factor in Geralt’s room for the last few days, when he was almost always too cold. It was comforting to listen to, though, and Ciri allowed her eyes to drift shut sleepily. Her heart was content, and in many ways she felt the happiest she had in many years. All was well.

She had merely intended to shut her eyes for a moment, to enjoy the sound of Eskel humming and the gentle sound of Geralt’s raspy breaths over the popping of the fire. But the next time Ciri awoke, it was morning.

\----

Geralt blinked sleepily, mostly awoken by the fact that there was sun streaming in and hitting him squarely in the face. It took a few times to clear the blurriness in his vision, he noted with some frustration. Clearly, his body was far from fully recovered. He was still very weak.

Sighing a bit, he rolled over, gritting his teeth when the newly healed bones in his left side and arm ground together. He tried not to allow the strangled groan to pass by his lips, but was unsuccessful. Someone shifted, and Geralt kicked himself, recognizing it as Ciri from her breathing pattern. He could tell from the angle of the sun streaming in through his window that it was still an ungodly hour, even for the inhabitants of Kaer Morhen. He hoped Ciri would go back to sleep. Barely daring to breathe, he listened to her heart pick up its pace as she yawned, turned a bit, and then sat up properly. Geralt tried not to curse himself and his clumsiness. He should have known better than to try rolling over with his body in the state that it was. His left side was more black, blue and green than he had ever seen it. 

Cracking an eye, Geralt watched Ciri look around her with a dazed, sleepy look in her eyes. She scratched the back of her head furiously, leaving her hair a tangled nest that stuck out from the nape of her neck. He allowed himself a small smile at the sight of her; about as far from a princess as one could imagine. After a moment, she seemed to startle into reality, and turned to him, lying awkwardly halfway on his side. Immediately, Ciri’s face creased into a frown, and all traces of her sleepiness vanished, though the tangled rat’s nest of hair and reddened creases in her face remained. 

“Are you alright?”

Geralt made a face and opened his other eye; his depth perception was completely skewed looking at her like this.

“Fine.”

Ciri piled up some pillows and levered Geralt up on her shoulder before he could decline. It was probably for the best, his arms were still shaky. It hurt his ribs to eat, and made him nauseous, but the lack of food was probably doing nothing to help his weakness. He slumped back and blinked, wondering what had woken him so early. Perhaps all the sleeping had finally caught up to him. He hoped his body would stop making him drift off midway through the day. It was a dreadful inconvenience.

When the stars finally stopped flashing in front of Geralt’s eyes at the sudden change in altitude, he turned his head to look at Ciri, who was scrubbing at her face sleepily again.

“Go back to bed,” he grumbled, voice raspy from sleep and the injuries to his lungs, “I’ll probably just fall back asleep again anyways.”

“I’m up now. No point in trying to go back to sleep. It never works.”

Geralt tried not to take the words as a punch in the gut, because he knew Ciri had not intended for them to be taken that way. He couldn’t help but feel responsible for waking her, though. His brain flitted from one thought to another, struggling to make sense of all the feelings. He had always struggled with things like this. Like he was capable of feeling intensely, but not of computing those feelings or understanding why or how they were happening to him. By the time he came to the conclusion that he should probably apologize to Ciri, she had stood and was splashing water on her face from the basin on the dresser. He swallowed, frustrated. His own head never failed to betray him, right when he needed it most.

“Want some breakfast?” Ciri was standing by the door, drying her face with a towel. Her hair was still piled in one enormous knot at the back of her head. One hand combed through it in a vain attempt to get it straightened out, but her fingers only got tangled and yanked at her scalp. She cursed in pain and tried to extricate her hand.

“Top drawer.”

“What?” Ciri’s hand was still tangled in her hair.

“There’s a brush, in the top drawer of the dresser. It might work better than trying to permanently entwine your fingers with your hair.”

Ciri shot him a venomous look and extracted the brush from the drawer. It was fine, a gift from Dandelion. Geralt rarely used it, which, he supposed, was part of the reason Dandelion had given it to him in the first place. Something about “running a comb through his hair occasionally”. Usually, though, Geralt resorted to the same tactic he had just witnessed Ciri failing to employ. He usually experienced similar results, and had contemplated cutting his hair off many times. He was, though he would never admit it, attached to his hair. It was a visible mark of his second trials. While he would never go so far as to say it was something he took pride in, it did set him apart amongst Witchers. Identified him as the White Wolf. As well as saddled him with whatever baggage was associated with that name. Geralt felt he deserved, at least, to carry the weight of all he had done, the good and the bad.

Ciri was now ripping the brush through her hair with a venom Geralt would have thought she would reserve for particularly foul monsters, and the Nilfgaardian army. She cursed fiercely, and Geralt couldn’t help but wince at a few particularly painful ripping sounds. The knot remained, unmovable.

“Come here.”

Ciri looked up, face flushed with rage. Geralt made a small gesture with his good hand, and she walked over and plopped down on the edge of his bed, facing the wall, and handed him the brush.

“Do your worst. Not even my nurses back in Cintra could tame it when it got like this. I always begged them to cut it off, but they never would. Always cooed about how beautiful it was. A crock of bullshit, if you ask me.”

“Don’t curse. Give me that mug of water.”

Ciri handed Geralt the mug on the bedside table, looking mildly curious as he poured it over her hair and gently eased the brush through only the top layer of tangles. Dampened, her hair separated easily. He worked it through, asking her to hold her hair at the scalp so he wouldn’t pull it, and very soon the knot became no more than a particularly fluffy head of hair. Geralt set the brush down next to her, and Ciri ran her hands over her hair, gaping.

“Where did you learn to do that? Gods, it didn’t even hurt.”

“You’d be surprised, what becomes necessary after three days of wandering through a swamp hunting down drowners. The water usually does the trick.”

Geralt could’ve sworn he saw Ciri’s bottom lip tremble for a moment as she picked up the brush.

“Thank you. I…I didn’t realize that you could, well…” She trailed off awkwardly, clearly rethinking whatever she had been about to say. Geralt knew well enough, but he chose to leave it. The world was full of rumours about Witchers, and very few of them were kind. He had been more than prepared for the fact that Ciri had been exposed to such tales, the ones that said Witchers weren’t capable of love, weren’t capable of being gentle. In fact, Geralt was surprised it had taken this long for such an issue to come up. However, Ciri had clearly caught herself, recognized that what she had been about to say was foolish, so Geralt left the matter. She looked so pleased, running her hands through her knot free hair, smiling a bit. 

“I’m going to go get breakfast. Try to go back to sleep while I’m gone, I know you still need it. Shall I bring you anything to eat?”

Geralt swallowed miserably at the thought of eating anything at the moment, but he knew that if he went on much longer without food, his body would stop healing entirely. He felt very ill again, and tired. He sighed. Such was the way with injuries that left him bedridden for such a length of time. He had learned it was best to get the initial illness at the reintroduction of food over with as quickly as possible.

“Some bread.”

Ciri nodded, a small smile on her cheeks, probably relieved that Geralt was eating again. She flitted out the doorway, leaving Geralt alone with his thoughts. He slumped back against the pillows, no longer feeling the need to hold his body as though each beat of his slow heart didn’t send aching agony radiating through his whole left hand side. It was far more comfortable, leaning back, head supported by the headboard.

Though he was tired and groggy and generally unable to devote much attention to thoughts, Geralt did notice that Ciri was in a remarkably good mood this morning. Despite her protestations, he was glad she had gone out yesterday. She had come back smelling of soil and the sun and of hard work, and Geralt had felt envious. Even the scent of soil was something he was longing for after spending nearly a week confined to his bed. Especially in springtime, when the dirt was newly thawed and most, it had a certain lively smell to it that Geralt had never experienced in any other way. He could hear the world waking up outside the Keep, and he wanted to get up and see it. Travelling the Continent, spending nearly all his time making camp amongst the trees and beasts, it was difficult to not feel almost more at home with them than he did within the four walls of Kaer Morhen. There was something about the relative safety of the Keep that made Geralt feel stuffy and enclosed. He couldn’t help but think that his recovery time would have been shorter had he been left to his own devices, lying alone on a mountainside somewhere. At least that was his preferred hunting ground, the place that he knew. Although, from what Eskel told him, Ciri had saved his life. Perhaps he could do with having her along, in this hypothetical. Especially with her newly found cheerfulness. 

Ciri came banging back into the room just as Geralt was beginning half to nod off, lost down his own train of thought. He jolted a bit, and noticed that she was much more gentle when she set down the tray and closed the door behind her. He thought he heard her muttering curses to herself under her breath.

“’S alright. I’m not asleep.”

Ciri looked up, her eyes a little wide, clearly having thought he had nodded off. She perked up quickly though, bringing over the tray, onto which was piled what Geralt estimated was at least half a loaf of bread, along with butter, jam, and a mug of tea. She looked at him expectantly, beaming in a way that served only to remind Geralt how young she was. A fact he forgot far too often, in the face of the atrocities she had witnessed. 

“Your enthusiasm is much appreciated.” He stated dryly, trying to swallow past his aching stomach, which seemed to be determined to tie itself in knots before it came in contact with any food. Ciri looked down, her pale face turning beet red.

“Too much?”

“It doesn’t matter. It’ll save you a trip downstairs later.”

Ciri nodded, clearly deflated, and sat down in the chair. She had a bowl clutched to her chest, and Geralt watched her eat porridge drenched in honey, trying to get up the nerve to pick up a slice of dried bread. She was clearly ravenous, and her slurping and noisy swallowing was doing nothing for his nausea. Eventually, she looked up.

“Are you alright?”

“Hmmm…just ill.”

Ciri seemed to put two and two together and placed her bowl on the mantel before returning to his side.

“I’ll eat later, while you’re asleep. Should I read for a bit, to take your mind off things? I always find I get more nauseous if I think about how nauseous I am.”

Geralt allowed his lips to quirk upwards a bit. If only it were that simple. After over a week doing nothing more than drinking water and broth, Geralt would have given anything to avoid the illness he was sure to come.

“Ciri?”

“Mhmm?” She had flipped her book open, and was reading to herself, mouthing the words, waiting for Geralt’s permission before she started out loud.

“Tomorrow, I’d like to go out into the courtyard. With you. And no, don’t tell Eskel. He’d probably tie me down.”

“He’d be wise to.” Ciri appraised him shrewdly, and from the expression on her face, Geralt knew he probably still looked pale and tired. He certainly felt it. 

“It’s just my bones that need healing now. If you help me with the stairs, I’ll be fine. Witchers heal faster than humans, Ciri. My ankle is well on its way to being better. Eskel is my brother. He’s bound to worry more than he should.”

“And I’m not?”

“Don’t make that face, Ciri. It’s unseemly. I trust that you know enough of your way around healing to approach the situation objectively.”

Ciri nearly went cross-eyed; Geralt expected it had been a while since anyone had spoken to her that way. Certainly, Cintran villagers did not have the most commanding knowledge of the common tongue. She made a face and considered for a moment.

“Fine. But if you’re ill, we’re coming in. And you need to eat that.”

“I was planning on it.”

“Would you like me to read, while you are?”

“It gives you a headache. I’ll be fine.”

Ciri shrugged and went back to her book. Geralt appraised the toast and swallowed convulsively.

“You may want to go to the library.”

Ciri smiled softly, not looking up from her reading. 

“I’ll stay. There’s a bowl on the bedside table, if you need it.”

Geralt frowned. It was uncanny, the girl’s intuitive abilities. He often wondered if whatever magical abilities she had inherited did not include a bit of telepathy. Swallowing back his last nauseated cramp, Geralt picked up a piece of bread and bit into it gingerly. It was good, when it hit his tongue, more flavourful than anything he’d had to eat since he and Ciri had left. He let it sit in his mouth for a second, and allowed himself to feel hopeful as his stomach didn’t rebel instantly. He swallowed, let it settle. His stomach twisted, but he managed to swallow back his nausea. Ciri looked up.

“Alright?”

Geralt nodded and took another bite. This time, the texture proved to be a bit much, and he gagged, Ciri at his side in an instant, rubbing his back and good shoulder. Already exhausted, Geralt gave up, sagging into her as his body convulsed and divulged the meagre contents of his stomach. Ciri wrapped a surprisingly strong arm around his shoulders, careful of the injured one, and held him until it was done. If Geralt hadn’t felt so miserable, he would have mortified at the small shushing noises she was making. As it was, he was exhausted, and they blended into a comforting background noise. When he was finished, Ciri rested her head on top of his own, rubbing her hand up and down his back.

“Better?”

“Hardly.” Geralt coughed and spat, wincing when the motion set his ribs to aching even more than they already were. Ciri set the bowl back on the table and gently helped Geralt lay back down. He wondered when her arms had become so strong. When he had found her in Sodden, she had been barely more than skin and bones. Training had done the same to him, though, he supposed. 

He heard Ciri rustling about as he lay back, trying hard to breathe through his nose. She was probably disposing of the bowl. When Geralt heard her sit back down, he opened his eyes and snatched up the offending slice of bread again.

“You can’t be serious.”

“Once the initial illness is gone, my stomach usually settles. This is far from the first time I’ve dealt with such complications.”

Ciri’s brow creased, and Geralt wondered when the last time was that someone other than his brothers had showed such genuine concern for him. Dandelion, perhaps. The bard was always concerned, trailing after him on hunts, stitching up his wounds. Gods, Geralt missed him. He resolved to seek him out, when he left the Keep again. He nibbled at the bread, and sighed with relief when his stomach didn’t turn anymore. He worked his way through the rest of the piece slowly, wincing a bit. His throat was raw, and his mouth tasted awful. Ciri passed him the mug of tea when he was finished, and Geralt accepted it gratefully. She must have put honey in it; his throat scratched less as soon as it passed through his lips.

When Geralt was finished eating the bread, Ciri moved the tray away, perhaps fearful his stomach would once again deem the presence of food to be unacceptable. Then, she curled back up in the chair, opening the windows first. There were birds chirping outside, a noise which normally drove Geralt to distraction. He struggled with sleeping enough already, the last thing he needed was an overexcited male robin chirping at his window at the crack of dawn. However, now, having been deprived of any scenery beyond the four stone walls of his chamber for nearly a week, Geralt closed his eyes and soaked in the sound. During a normal year, this was about the time he would be packing his things onto Roach, getting ready to depart for another year on the path. Briefly, Geralt wondered when he would do that again. With Ciri here, it was unlikely he would leave Kaer Morhen until her training was complete. He shuddered despite himself. Vesemir had yet to divulge the details of what he had planned once Ciri had trained to the extent her human body could manage, but Geralt got the feeling he wouldn’t like what the fencing master had to say. He would never allow Ciri to go through the Trials, especially now that there were no mages at the Keep who possessed the knowledge, meaning Vesemir would have to find a willing, inexperienced one. No, Geralt would take Ciri and set out on the path again as soon as she was trained. He would die before she was subjected to the Grasses, or whatever bastardized version Vesemir could contrive now that the Keep had been sacked.

“You alright?”

Geralt snapped his eyes open, and realized he had been breathing much heavier than usual. His ribs throbbed, and he brought up a hand, gripping at them uncomfortably.

“Fine. Just thinking.”

“About?”

Geralt grimaced. Damn his mouth. 

“The path.”

Ciri cocked her head, looking confused. Clearly, this was not a term she had heard used before. Geralt was surprised. He had not been a main participant in her training, but he was now beginning to wonder what Vesemir had spent his time teaching her.

“When Witchers leave their keep and go out to seek contracts during the warm months.”

“Ah. Will you miss it this year, do you think?”

Geralt looked at her, bemused. His feelings towards the path and finding work were ambivalent, at best. He wasn’t sure how he could miss something that was simply what he did. It was like asking the sun if it would miss rising in the sky, should it someday stop. 

“I…don’t know.”

Ciri smiled a bit, verging on a laugh, and turned back to her reading.

“Go to sleep. Your eyes go funny and crossed when you're tired, and you’re very bad at hiding it.”

Geralt blinked, wondering why no one had ever mentioned this particular trait to him before. Surely, Dandelion had noticed it, and everything Dandelion noticed was usually only one ale away from slipping off his tongue. Sighing, Geralt laid back, rolling his ankle experimentally and finding the pain to be a bit less blinding than it had been previously. His ribs still twinged with every breath, but the pain in his arm was receding similarly. Perhaps, with a bit more rest, he would heal faster than Eskel was expecting. The room, the constant lethargy, the feelings of weakness and tiredness, it was beginning to wear on him. It had been years since Geralt had been laid up for such a long time, and he had nearly forgotten how painful it was. He itched to go outside, to feel the breeze on his face.

“Stop it. I can feel you thinking. You’ll never heal if you spend all your time lying in bed ruminating.”

Geralt breathed heavily out through his nose and tried to relax. Every fibre of his being was exhausted; his chest muscles ached from convulsing so violently. Eventually, sounds began blurring together, occasionally one rose above the rest to strike a noisy note of discord, and Geralt knew he was more asleep than awake. He allowed himself to drift there for a bit, too exhausted to push himself to sleep but also too far gone to completely wake himself. Eventually, he drifted off.

\----

The moment Geralt’s breaths evened out into the gentle cadence of sleep, Ciri breathed a sigh of relief. She was surprised he had held up for as long as he had, after such a disrupted morning. His breathing was far more even now, though; it no longer sounded like every breath took effort, and he slept more easily. Setting her book on the dusty floor, Ciri leaned over and pulled the blankets up over her sleeping father, allowing herself to smile fondly for a moment, and in so doing feeling far older than she really was. She felt whole, like for the first time since Cintra had fallen and she had run from the ashes of her home, there was something that could fill the void of losing almost everything. And there was a relief in that, as though the weight of finding a replacement to everything she had ever loved had been lifted from her shoulders. Sighing, she settled back, turning her chair a bit as the noon sun caught her in the eye. Outside, a gentle breeze blew, and Ciri wondered why Geralt had never bothered to put curtains up in his room. Witchers and all their damnable practicality, and none of them appeared to have ever had the thought to fashion curtains to keep out the sun. Perhaps they simply never spent enough time in the quarters for it to matter. Or perhaps it was another thing that had fallen with the sacking of the Keep, that the remaining Witchers had never repaired. It was strange, their memorialization of their dead brothers. It was almost as though they felt they didn’t deserve to rebuild. Knowing Geralt, Ciri wouldn’t be at all surprised if that was the case.

She cast another look at his gaunt face before going back to her reading. A conversation for when he was well again, she thought. For the first time in a long while, Ciri felt as though she had all the time she could ask for, to learn these things. She breathed into the breeze, at peace.


	10. Possession

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a terrifying incident in the keep, Geralt reveals to Ciri what he believes inhabited her mind on the mountaintop. Shaken and afraid, the two of them try to find a way forward together.

The moment they stepped outside, Ciri immediately understood why the other Witchers of the keep had been more than willing to allow her to escort Geralt on his first trip around the gardens since their return. He was hellbent, it seemed, on doing everything for himself, now that he had finally been deemed well enough to hobble briefly around the fortress. Ciri was beginning to lose patience. She was surprised he had lasted as long as he had, with such poor self-preservation instincts.

“Your ankle is still broken, Geralt. Just lean on me, for pity’s sake.”

The moment he put weight on the ankle, he grimaced and braced quickly against the wall, turning his face presumably so that Ciri wouldn’t see his anguish. It was a poor strategy, though, since his heaving breaths were loud enough to be picked up by even her poorly-attuned human ears.

“Just…give me a moment.”

“Geralt, you’re heaving worse than Roach after a gallop up a hill. Come here, I can help you. I’m not as weak as you think I am. And despite what you might like to believe, you won’t make it out the door without someone helping you along.”

Geralt twisted as much as his still-healing chest would allow, looking up at her through a curtain of loose hair. He had not been able to bathe since they had returned, besides the times when Ciri had dampened her hands and brushed them through his hair, or cleaned him up while he was sleeping. He had released his hair from its loose braid today, claiming that his scalp itched. Though she thought it was more in part to hide his pallor; now that the fever-brightness had reduced from his cheeks, it was all the more apparent that he was far from being completely recovered. 

“When did you become an expert on such things?” His mouth was twisting wryly, and there was no real venom behind his words, but Ciri still felt a flame of ire ignite in her gut.

“Since I’ve been making sure you didn’t die for the past weeks.” She left the rest of it unsaid. The part about how she had lost everyone else, about how their ghosts dogged her every step and action. Geralt already knew this. Though perhaps he did not know how close he had truly come to joining their ranks. In any case, Ciri was not in the mood to enlighten him at the moment. She had a book of poetry tucked under her arm, along with a blanket and some sandwiches. A few months ago, she never would have suggested doing something as mundane as sharing a picnic and a lazy afternoon with Geralt. But his injury had given him no choice, and she was very content to enjoy an afternoon unsullied by the complications of their evolving relationship.

When Geralt caught the slight anguish in her words, he lifted his head, hair parting in a lanky curtain.

“You’ve done well, child. Despite my constant efforts to convince you otherwise. Which aren’t as intentional as they might seem.”

“I know,” she offered her arm again, “It’s your way. All of you. I suppose we all still have much to learn, yes?”

Geralt’s hand was trembling against the wall, and this time when Ciri stepped forward he gladly accepted her support, leaning so heavily on her arm that she had to adjust her stance. He was still a bit doubled over; the healing ribs were troubling both his breathing and his movement. And his limp was extremely pronounced; the recently re-broken ankle would accept no weight. If Ciri had had it her way, Geralt would still be in bed. But a promise was a promise. And Ciri had seen enough of them broken to know that she could never go back on her word now. 

“Come on, easy does it. We’re nearly there.”

Geralt didn’t even shoot her an irritable look. Ciri suspected that, a few weeks ago, she would have been shoved for making such a remark. Perhaps it was simple that he was in too much agony to make a comment on her gentleness. Or perhaps he truly didn’t mind.

Once they were out in the open air, Geralt stopped abruptly, his halt tugging on Ciri’s arm and causing her to halt as well. He breathed in a bit, and straightened up, grimacing. One of Ciri’s hands flew to his back, helped him stay upright, supported his ribs. And she watched as he closed his eyes with what was almost a wistful expression on his face as the wind ruffled his greasy hair gently. It was a gentle, mild day, the springtime air warmer now, though still because of their location in the mountains. Above them, a few barn swallows flitted to and fro, carrying sticks to a small nest embedded in one of the crevices in the keep’s wall. Geralt’s eyes tracked them for a moment, and a small smile appeared on his face. Ciri watched his changing expressions, a little flame of joy kindled in her own chest to see him looking better than he had in weeks.

“It’s always the same pair.”

“What?”

“Of swallows. They nest in that spot every summer, and the parents of the male before them. Each spring, I wonder if they’ll come back. But they always do, somehow. Gods only know where they choose to spend their winter, but I can’t imagine why they’d choose this place to raise their young over whatever warmer climes they travel to.”

Ciri squinted up at the little birds, chittering on the edge of their rapidly emerging nest. They were making animated noises at one another, and reminded her a bit of some of the nobles that had used to frequent her grandmother’s court. Especially with their royal blue feathers and orange tint. She grinned a bit at their antics, and considered what Geralt had said.

“I know why they come back, you know. And I think, if you thought about it, you do too.”

“What’s this now?”

“It’s home. Wherever they go in the winter, it’s not where they were born. It’s not where their parents brought them food and where they took their first flight and felt the wind rush by under their wings. It might be warmer there, and safer, and not be haunted by all sorts of strange spirits, but it’s not home.”

Geralt fixed Ciri with a piercing look then, amber eyes clearer than they had been since the hunting trip. He was beginning to double over again, but paused for a moment, head cocked in a birdlike gesture, as though he were considering very hard what Ciri had said. This struck as odd. After all, it was not a difficult concept to understand. But he stood like that for several minutes, until the colour drained from his face and he finally crunched back over, trying to suppress a wince as his ribs presumably twinged. Ciri reached out and caught him before he was hanging off nothing but her elbow. They continued their slow meander towards a grassy patch in the garden in silence for several more seconds, before Geralt looked down at her (even doubled over a bit, he was still far taller than her).

“Is that what it’s like for you?”

Ciri smiled.

“I…think so. Not at first. But now it is. Kaer Morhen isn’t where I was born. But at the same time, in a very strange way, it is. It’s where I’m learning…everything. It’s where I finally became safe after months of running. So I suppose you could say that the swallows and I have that in common. And I think, maybe, we do too?”

Another olive branch, still tentatively extended. But, Geralt took it, easily, though he looked rather conflicted about what Ciri had said.

“I suppose it is. But…in a more complex way, for myself and all the Witchers who were brought here as children. I was also born here, in a way. But not a pleasant way. And those memories can’t be eradicated, not by the many good times I’ve had within these walls.”

Ciri knew she couldn’t possibly hope to understand the depth of the scarring that had been left behind by the Trials. She had seen the way Geralt and the other Witchers memorialized the boys who had not survived, and also how they memorialized their former selves. The complexity of such a painful and drastic transformation would surely alter them in ways she could never fathom. And Geralt had made it clear on multiple occasions that she would never have to go through the Trials, never have to be in a place where she would understand such a thing.

“Come on, let’s go sit. You look pale.”

Geralt looked worse than pale, but Ciri was sure he already knew this. His cheeks had taken on a sickly sort of flush, the spotty kind that only came from exerting oneself far too much. He limped heavily next to her as they made their way over to the grassy patch, and when they arrive there he simply stood, staring uncomfortably at the one boot he was able to wear, the other one not fitting over his heavily bandaged ankle. His sharp teeth worried momentarily at his lip, a tell Ciri had noticed several times over the last months, one that meant he was uncomfortable about something. 

“You know, you can just ask. It’s a good thing I can tell that your ribs are paining you, otherwise I might have simply let go and you would’ve fallen straight on your ass.”

Though Geralt’s face was partially hidden, Ciri thought she caught a glimpse of a smirk, followed quickly by an admonishing frown.

“You don’t need to curse. Can you help me down?”

“I find that a bit rich, coming from you. I’ve learnt a whole host of new words since arriving here, and I don’t think any of them would be appropriate for use in the great courts of the Continent.”

“Good thing we’re not in a great court, then.”

Ciri never would have dared tease him in such a way a few weeks ago. But having spent most of her time since their return to the keep sitting with Geralt in his bedroom, reading and talking to him, she had become far more confident. And knowledgeable about the type of banter that she could keep going with him. She reached out and grasped his elbow with both hands and eased him to the ground, helping him lie back on the soft grass, silver hair spread out underneath him. He winced and hissed a bit when his back straightened out; his tender ribs protesting at the sudden change of position, but quickly regained his composure. A frown passed over his brows.

“I need a bath.”

“Perhaps another day. I think this is more than enough walking about for today. Or we’ll be re-setting your ankle for a second time.”

“I’ll see how I’m feeling.”

There were certain notes of finality when Geralt spoke of such things which brooked no argument, and Ciri wisely clamped her mouth shut, retrieving the sandwiches and her books from the bag she had brought along. She passed one to Geralt, and he inspected it with careful fingers, surprisingly delicate in his touch.

“What’s this? It doesn’t smell like ham.”

“It’s not. It’s venison, with a pear compote and cheese. I shot the beast myself a few days ago, while you were resting, and Lambert showed me how to cure and prepare it.”

Geralt eyed her, and eyebrow raised in surprise.

“Lambert?”

“Mhmm. He’s fairly agreeable to passing on his wisdom, so long as I’m appreciative to the point of grovelling. Which, in this case, I thought was appropriate. Though I’ll be more than happy to eat it for you, if your stomach is still unwell.”

“Think I’ll manage.”

A little smile flickered across Geralt’s face again, and he laughed gently as he bit into the sandwich, eyes closing after the first bite. Ciri took this as a sign of approval, and lay down next to him on the grass. The swallows were still flitting to and fro above them, and for a while they simply lay, watching the birds, until Geralt’s good arm began to tremble from the effort it took to eat, and he set down the bread with a sigh. A curse slipped out, barely noticeable amidst the heavy breath, but Ciri was instantly on alert.

“Are you alright? Should I get something for the pain? I brought…willow’s bark. No more opiates, Eskel said, but it should help a bit, and leave you a bit less groggy. Here, I can prepare some for you, just try not to move…”

Ciri stopped speaking abruptly when Geralt placed a shaky hand on her arm, half-lidded eyes meeting her own. He looked lazily tired, and very pale, but there was no more of a pained expression on his face than there had been since the morning.

“It’s manageable. I’m just tired.”

“Ah. Well, you should rest.”

Ciri snatched up a woven blanket from the bag and draped it over Geralt’s shoulders, noticing that they were trembling a bit. He was still constantly cold, a grim reminder of how ill he had been and how far he was from recovering fully. He used his good arm to pull the blanket up to his chin and let out a tired breath, allowing his eyes to slide shut. Tentatively, Ciri shuffled a bit closer to him. She and her grandmother had never shown much physical affection, beyond the occasional hug or pat on the shoulder. But since her flight from Cintra, Ciri found herself craving closeness, as though the real, living warmth was the only thing that could remind her that the man next to her was real and alive and not just a dream. She had not had the courage to ask or to initiate it though, until now. His coldness was a perfect excuse, and she could feel every muscle in her body tensing and preparing to back off and explain should he flinch away. But he did not. In fact, he shuffled a bit closer as well, seemingly subconsciously, seeing as how he was mostly asleep. A little thrill of warmth bloomed in Ciri’s heart, and she curled up against Geralt’s good side, book propped on his chest, her head resting on his shoulder. She could hear his heart thudding hard against her ears, closer to its normal tempo than it had been in weeks. Matching her breathing to his own, and breathing in the soft spring wind, she curled up and began to read.

\----

The wind was far louder now. Not in the way that sleep makes everything seem louder, but in a genuine, howling sort of way, as though it were whirling down into the valley on the wings of some great beast. Ciri blinked her eyes open, feeling disoriented and more exhausted than when she had shut her eyes. It had not been her intention to fall asleep, and as she blinked away the grit and realized how dark the sky had become, she immediately regretted that she had allowed herself such a luxury.

Heaving herself upright, her alarm only increased. A storm must have rolled in while she and Geralt were resting. The once blue canopy above the mountains was a bruised purple, and the wind whipped through her hair with a sort of alarming frenzy. The trees and plants of the garden shook in the wind as well, pushing this way and that and stretching to the very extents of their abilities. A few crocuses broke away from their stems as Ciri watched, rolling across the garden and plastering themselves at the base of the wall. She spat some hair out of her mouth, and saw with even greater fear that Geralt was still fast asleep, his breathing shallow and the colour completely drained from his face. Such a storm should have woken him at the first change in pressure. Ciri wanted to kick herself for allowing him out when he was clearly not ready to even have left his bed.

She was about to lean over him to wake him gently, when something stopped her. A whisper, amongst the screaming of the wind.

/Someday, you will take him to the island, d’hoine. He cannot die because someday you must carry him there./

Ciri looked up and around, searching for the source of the noise, but came back empty-handed. The wind was swirling around her more fiercely now, and she felt very afraid. She tried to lean forwards, to wake Geralt and get them both out of the cold and the impending rain, but found that her hands were immobile, bound to her sides by some invisible rope. Panic stirred up in her throat, a scream ripped at her mouth but made no sound. A presence, velvety and soft like cotton, enveloped her and brought her out of the ripping chill of the wind.

“What do you want?” It was an effort to speak, Ciri felt like her jaw had been locked shut.

/We want nothing, d’hoine. We are here to teach you. To show you what the future holds. You are our lady, and we are yours to command./

Still, there was no sign of anything living, of anything speaking to her. Ciri clenched her fists tightly, angrily.

“Then make it stop! Make all of this stop. You helped me save Geralt on the mountaintop, and I’m grateful to you, but this is too much! He’s freezing, and ill, and you’ll kill him with this wind and rain. If I am your lady, then I command you to make it stop.”

There was a sort of chuckle, a ripple in the wind but also in the fabric of what was real and what was not. For a moment, Ciri thought she could see beyond. It was as if someone had opened a rift in the very nature of the universe, and showed her a whole different reality, one where events transpired differently, one where the possibilities were infinite. She became dizzy, and tried to bring up her hands to cover her eyes, only to discover that they were still locked at her sides. The chuckling grew louder, until it was more like a cackle, a great booming laugh that echoed through the rift and pushed against Ciri’s ears, hurting them with the pressure of it. Every inch of her wanted to scream, wanted to fight against the horrendous laughter, against the endless impossibilities that poured out of the rift and into her mind. 

Later, she could not say how long it went on for. Only that she felt as though she would burst when the pressure finally abated, and the rift snapped shut with a loud bang that seemed to echo across every part of the Continent. Ciri was thrown to the ground, a haggard mess, and when she peeled her cheek away from the grass, the storm clouds were still looming, ominous, overhead. The air felt heavy and electric, and her mouth tasted so strongly of ozone that she had to swallow several times to keep from vomiting. 

“Fuck you,” she muttered, when she had the energy to force her raspy voice into words again, “Fuck all of you. I don’t care that you were kind to me once. You’ve left us here to die, damn you.”

She knew then that no one was coming, though she could not say how the knowledge came to her. But there was a certainty in her thoughts, when she realized that no one within the keep had felt a disturbance within its walls, that no one would rush out here and carry her weakened body and Geralt’s wounded one back inside. They were alone here. Alone and left at the mercy of a supernaturally powerful storm, the clouds of which were billowing overhead, swirling so quickly that Ciri could track them with her eyes, a roiling, purple sea that was on the brink of bursting forth.

Scrambling to her knees, Ciri tried to place all thoughts of the mysterious voices out of her head. There was still a part of her that seemed off, and that had ever since the mountain. But it was more firmly locked away now, placed out of sight and out of mind, no more than a distant murmur of some ancient power that Ciri wondered if she would ever be able to control. She determined to lock it away until she could. Then, she crawled forwards, and took Geralt’s head in her arms.

He was still sleeping, though how he had managed such a feat was beyond Ciri. He had seemed so much better; surely it was not only the wounds keeping him under like this. But even the weight of his head in her arms was too much, she could feel her muscles shaking and trembling. She dropped him back to the ground unexpectedly, and he came to with a groan and a frown, eyes widening a bit when he saw the swirling, stormy mass above them.

“Ciri…fuck, how long have we been here for? Why didn’t you wake me?” He sounded very groggy, as though he were rousing from a drugged sleep as opposed to a natural one. Ciri wondered if the strange voice had some part in that. It made anger roil, hot and furious, in her gut.

“I…I don’t know.” As soon as the words exited her mouth, she realized how shaken she sounded. Geralt caught on as well, and fixed his eyes on her.

“Ciri…”

“It’s nothing,” she said quickly, trying to compose herself and hide the raspy undertone in her voice, raw from trying and failing to scream, “We need to get inside before this storm begins and we’re in danger of getting struck by lightening, but…I don’t think I can help you. Can you walk?”

Geralt braced his hands against the grass and sat up, wincing and squeezing his eyes shut as the movement shifted his healing ribs. When he opened them again, he looked around, confused.

“Where are the others? They know we’re out here, why hasn’t anyone come?Eskel and his constant need to hover over the wounded, he should have been here the moment the storm first started brewing.”

“I…I don’t know. There’s something happening, Geralt. This storm isn’t natural, and no one is coming to help us. We’re on our own out here. And I know you’re still weak enough that letting yourself get cold and wet could cause serious damage.”

Ciri was trying and failing to keep the panic from her voice, and her arms were trembling underneath her so violently that she nearly collapsed and landed face-first in the grass. Geralt took her shoulder in his hand and squeezed it.

“It’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time I’ve had to struggle about on broken bones, and I’m sure it won’t be the last. Come, we need to go find the others and see what’s happened, yes? And then you need to tell me what happened while I was out. All of it. I can sense the chaos and fear on you, more than you would ever be able to create on your own.”

She drew in a few shuddering breaths at Geralt’s calm words. He was so even in a crisis. A temper to her impulsiveness and sensitivity. Matched blades, indeed. Trying to shake off the fear she felt at having to tell him the truth of what she was experiencing, Ciri braced her hands against the ground and stood, snatching up the bag and tottering back and forth for a moment before she found her balance. Then, she extended a pale, shaky hand towards Geralt, who was still hunched over on the ground, inhaling deeply through his nose. He waved her off, and hauled himself to his feet with an agonized groan. What little colour still remained in his face drained away, and as he wrapped a hand around his torso, Ciri thought for a moment he would pass out. But he seemed to get the dizziness under control, and after coughing a few times, he nodded to her. She offered up a shoulder, and he took it, though he put no weight on her already trembling frame.

Their progress was slow and painful, with Geralt’s breaths coming in shallow gasps and Ciri trembling at every step. By the time they reached the archway that led back inside, there was thunder rumbling ominously above them, and rain was beginning to patter fiercely on the ground, peppering the flagstones. Ciri could feel Geralt shivering, and the moment they made it inside the door he collapsed onto his knees, arms wrapped protectively around himself, breaths heaving. Ciri dropped to her knees next to him, wrapping her arms around him as well, offering some warmth. Vaguely, she heard footsteps crashing in the distance, but before she could see who was thundering towards them, she lost consciousness.

\----

Ciri groaned and massaged her head, trying to dispel the cobwebs that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there. She felt exhausted, the press of still-needed sleep heavy on her eyelids, and her mind fuzzy and overworked. There was still a strong flavour of ozone in her mouth, and for a terrifying moment, all she remembered was the storm, and she wondered if she had been struck by lightening, and if this was, in fact, the afterlife.

Then, she pried her eyes open, and knew that no afterlife could ever replicate the stoney barrenness of Kaer Morhen so perfectly. The vaulted ceiling above her was absolutely spotless, cold and tidy and all too practical. She recognized it as the library ceiling, and she pulled herself into a sitting position with an ill-concealed groan, blinking as the whole room dipped and swayed like the deck of a ship.

“Lie down, Ciri. You need the rest.”

Startled that she had not noticed there was someone else in the room with her, Ciri swung her head far too fast and sagged bonelessly down, felt an arm help her recline back onto the ground again. Someone pulled a soft fur up to her shoulders, and waited until she opened her eyes before speaking again.

“Better, no? For all your lecturing to me about overexerting myself, you certainly don’t seem to take your own advice to heart.”

She squinted up, and Geralt slowly swam into focus, looking a bit pale and very tired, but far better than her last memory of him slumped on the floor, wheezing breathlessly.

“You…you’re alright! What happened?”

Geralt waved his good hand in the air with a lackadaisical air that was unbecoming to him. He leaned back against the couch where he was resting, eyes catching the light of the fire crackling nearby. Ciri felt a little thrill of fear, despite herself. She had become so used to seeing him incapacitated these past few weeks, she had almost forgotten how powerful he was. How able he was to snuff out life at a moment’s notice. The wolfish look reflected in the firelight and his teeth, which protruded the smallest bit from his mouth when he was relaxed, reminded her all too easily of who he was. And though she put absolutely no stock in the rumours of Witchers eating children, and though she loved Geralt like her own father, there was still a small part of her that was very intimidated by him. An animalistic part that labelled him as a predator.

“Eskel and Lambert were waiting, inside the hall. Apparently there was some sort of protective force, like a wind, that prevented them from getting into the garden. Not anything you’d know about, hmm?”

Ciri squeezed her eyes shut and massaged her temples. Whatever power had been present in the garden, it had been at least partially under her command. After all, those voices had said they served her. But why would she have chosen, even subconsciously, to keep Eskel and Lambert away? The whole thing was dreadfully confusing. And not something she wanted to discuss with Geralt right now, when he was still clearly healing from his own ordeal of the last few weeks.

“I…don’t know. I don’t know what happened. I can’t remember.”

“Ciri.”

She gazed up at him, trying to keep her expression stoic, but failing miserably. His eyes were clearer than they had been in days, and it took her less than thirty seconds to crumble. There was no point in lying to him, she knew that.

“I…I wasn’t alone when I rescued you on the mountain. I probably never would have found you if I hadn’t had help, so I suppose I didn’t question where that help came from, so long as it helped me to get you home alive. But…it visited me again in the garden. And it was decidedly less helpful.”

Geralt cocked his head, good hand rubbing tiredly at his eyes. Ciri felt a little pang of guilt; surely she should wait to tell him this until he was completely himself again. But his expression brooked no argument, exhausted though it was. She took a deep breath and launched into her story.

For the most part, he let her speak. She was leaned back against an armchair, facing him, the fur still wrapped around her lap but freed from her arms so she could use her hands to describe what had happened. His eyebrows crinkled with concern when she arrived to the part atop the mountain and told him about using Signs for the first time, about the snowy hand that had guided and spoken to her. He stopped her occasionally, asking her to describe something better, to go back and recall in more detail moments which had seemed insignificant to her. For the first time, CIri got a glimpse of what it might be like to be one of Geralt’s clients. Frightened, alone and vulnerable, being asked to recall things they barely remembered. It was a humbling experience.

By the time she was finished explaining everything, including the incident in the garden, the fire was nothing more that popping coals in the grate. Ciri could only make out Geralt’s vague outline, though she was sure he could still see her fine. He looked tired though; his back was slumped and his hand had subconsciously moved back to wrap around his ribs as the night had grown long. When she was finished speaking, he passed her a water skin, and Ciri wet her parched lips and mouth, smacking them nervously. He said nothing, just considered, eyes occasionally catching the firelight and reflecting green, like a cat’s. 

“These valleys are rife with spirits,” he finally said, “Many met their ends here, far before our time. It doesn’t surprise me that, with your sensitivity to chaos, these spirits were able to take advantage of you and gain access to your mind. If you intend to travel on the Path, Ciri, you will encounter many such places, where there are untapped reservoirs of chaos and spirits that will seek to control you. They are malevolent things. You need to learn to guard yourself from them, and all the more so because when they gain access to your mind they also gain access to your chaos.”

Ciri suddenly felt very unclean. She swallowed, wishing more than anything that she could cleanse herself, cleanse her mind and her body and her very soul of whatever being had tried to control her. She felt violated, more violated than she had felt in a long time. Her thin hands scrubbed along her skin, as though perhaps she could remove the demons inside her simply by brushing away the dust and dirt on the surface.

A hand reached out and took her smaller ones. She tried to keep brushing at her skin, but they restrained her with more force than she had expected, leaving her grasping at thin air.

“Come. It’s time to rest. You’re exhausted.”

Feeling numb, Ciri nodded. She was frightened, hyperaware of every thought that passed through her head and constantly wondering which ones were her own and whether some of them belonged to the spirit that had somehow gained access to her. Geralt tugged gently at her hands, and she stumbled over to him, collapsing against him before cursing herself as he grunted in pain.

“Shit…sorry.”

“’S fine.”

Geralt pushed her off of him, and she turned and saw in the orange firelight that he had gone very pale, his mouth a tight line of pain. Trying to wipe all of the turmoil from her own mind, Ciri straightened herself up, placing a shaking hand against the couch to brace herself.

“Let’s go back upstairs. You look ill. You shouldn’t even have been out of bed today, let alone traipsing around the keep.”

There was a small slump to Geralt’s shoulders as he nodded, but before he pushed himself to his feet he stopped and caught Ciri’s eye, his own gaze as determined and fiery as she had ever seen it.

“We will find a way to keep you safe from these spirits. You may not have been through the Grasses or have all the controls a Witcher has to keep him safe from such things, but we will find a way. You don’t need to be frightened, yes?”

Ciri felt her lower lip tremble, and she quickly bit it, not wanting to appear too broken by the violation of her mind. She nodded, a barely visible motion, and pulled herself off the couch on trembling legs, shaking like a newborn foal. Geralt brushed off her extended hand, and pushed himself up under his own power, still hunched over, grimacing the entire way. Ciri watched him anxiously, and offered up a shoulder.

“We may as well help each other,” she said under her breath, “Neither of us is making it up those stairs under our own power.”

“Hmm.”

Geralt braced Ciri awkwardly while at the same time leaning a bit of his weight on her to help him get by on his injured ankle. Together they made it nearly to the stairs, before Geralt stopped limping and placed the flat of his hand against the wall, panting.

“Think I’ll just…sleep here.” There was a faint upturning on Geralt’s lips, and despite her own emotional turmoil, Ciri couldn’t help but giggle a little bit at the ridiculousness of their situation. Perhaps, had she been whole, she would have been able to get both of them up the stairs. But her legs were wobbling still, simply from standing upright, and she knew there was no way she could get her own exhausted body to Geralt’s room, let alone help the Witcher as well.

“It looks homey enough. If only we’d thought to bring some furs from the library.”

“Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

Before Ciri could protest, Geralt limped off, gasping a bit, and returned a few minutes later with two furs draped over his shoulders. Ciri had sunk down against the wall, shivering a bit as the cold stone came in contact with her back. Geralt eased down next to her with a wince and a groan, and wrapped a white wolf’s pelt around her shoulders.

“Sleep for a bit. Having something invade your mind like that is exhausting. I’ll be here if you need anything, alright?”

Some part of Ciri wanted to protest and say this was wrong, that she was the one who should be caring from her father, who was wounded and pale and shivering, not the other way around. But she was cold, and very frightened, and she snuggled up against his good shoulder with little complaint. He wrapped his arm around her, and as she was about to fall asleep she shifted and looked up at him briefly.

“You’ll sleep too, won’t you? You’re not well yet.”

“Mmm.”

Ciri was too tired to ask what that might mean. Her eyes were heavy and falling shut, and Geralt’s skin was so very warm against her cheek. His good hand was curling around her hair in a monotonous rhythm, and it was to that rhythm that she attuned her breath and eventually fell asleep.

\----

In the windowless corridor, there was no way to tell the time. However, when Ciri finally blinked her eyes open after a long time of drifting in a semiconscious haze, she could tell it was morning. The wall that was pressed against her back was frozen, even through the fur wrapped about her shoulders. She shrugged a bit and stretched her hands out in front of her, grasping at the empty air and tensing up her fingers. A groaning sort of yawn escaped her lips as she let tension shudders rip through her frame, and the slightly warmer surface to her right shifted a bit, groaning as well. She popped open an eye, and immediately shot the rest of the way awake.

“Shit, Geralt? Wake up, come on!” She gripped his good shoulder and shook him vigorously, not entirely aware yet, knowing only that the last time it had just been the two of them, alone and sleeping side by side, he had been very wounded. Wounded enough that she should not have let him fall asleep.

“Mmm…Ciri, fuck, stop…m’shoulder.”

It was in this moment that Ciri fully reoriented, taking in the stony walls of Kaer Morhen and Geralt, who was speaking far too coherently to be as wounded as she had feared. Shamefacedly, she backed off, feeling heat drip into her cheeks as Geralt gripped his shoulder and arm through their sling, grimacing sleepily. He blinked open his eyes and winced.

“Fuck…what happened?”

“It would appear that we fell asleep at the bottom of the stairs.” Ciri tried to find her usual snide, teasing tone, but could not locate it. Along with the realizations about their location came the remembrance that she had been possessed. She felt as though all her levity was buried deep, under several layers of mud and rocks in her mind. She could feel nothing but a grim weight and fear on her consciousness. 

Geralt sat forwards and shook his head. Ciri noted that he was still taking far longer than he should to wake, and more concern struck through her heart. She was also feeling significantly better this morning; all the weakness of last night had dissipated. She stood, and offered her arm to Geralt, who pulled himself upright with a grunt.

“Come,” she said, “We should go upstairs. You need to rest, I know you’re still not well, and sleeping sitting against that wall can’t have done you any favours.”

Geralt reached out and adjusted the wolf’s skin on Ciri’s shoulders before pulling his own tighter around him, warding off the shivers that the cool hall inevitably brought on. Ciri lent him her shoulder, and together they limped up the stairs, Geralt leaning heavily both on the railing and on her. By the time they reached the top, he was gasping, and she nearly had to carry him down the call and to his room, where she deposited him in the bed. He lay back, grimacing and rolling his broken ankle gingerly.

“That’s not healing as it should,” Ciri frowned, “Where’s Eskel? He should come take a look at this.”

“He’ll be by…in a bit,” Geralt panted, “Don’t worry. I suspect…it has something to do with the chaos surrounding the keep. It interferes, makes it hard for my own mutations to do their work. And there’s been a surplus of it since we got back from the valley.”

Ciri nodded, not wanting to let herself feel guilty. However, she couldn’t help but think that it was her fault that Geralt wasn’t healing as quickly as he could. After all, she was the one who had introduced all the dangerous, uncontrolled chaos inside the castle’s walls.

Geralt caught her wrist sharply, jolting her out of her reverie.

“Stop that. I can feel you thinking it,” he was reclined against his pillows now, fur still wrapped about his shoulders, but looking a but more relaxed at least, “This is not your fault. You can’t control it anymore than I can. And I’m sure that Vesemir and Eskel will find some way of helping you control it.”

“What…what about you?”

“I don’t have the necessary skills. I’m a warrior, Ciri. I have the basic skills of meditation taught to me in order to keep myself safe on the Path. But Eskel has a touch of chaos to him, and he’s far more in tune with chaos in his own mind and around him than I am. And Vesemir is the oldest among us, the only one who might be able to recall something from long ago, perhaps a similar case that will allow us to help you.”

Ciri gulped. She didn’t fancy the idea of Vesemir and Eskel learning that she had allowed some strange spirit access to her mind without so much as putting up a fight. Surely, they already thought her weak enough, with her unmutated body and scrawny sword arm. Eskel was loving and kind to her, and so was Vesemir, but she couldn’t help but think that they looked down on her, and that Vesemir, at least, wished she would go through with the mutations. 

“Will…will you come with me? When I tell them?”

Geralt nodded.

“Of course. Though you don’t need to be afraid. Come here, Ciri.”

Ciri shivered a bit. She felt weak again. Weak and vulnerable, with that thing waiting in the back of her subconscious to pounce at a moment’s notice. She crawled into Geralt’s arms and nestled her head under his chin, pressed her ear to his chest. She could hear his heart beating ever so slowly in his chest, his breathing, so much less faint and choppy than it had been in the days beforehand. His one good hand moved cautiously to her back, and when she didn’t flinch away but instead settled into his touch, it began to move in a slow, comforting figure eight pattern.

“Breathe with the circles,” he said softly, as though he were telling her a secret, “In on the top one, and out on the bottom.”

She followed the pattern with her breathing, and noticed that Geralt was doing it as well; clearly his lungs had healed enough that he was able to regulate their flow again. He continued to trace the pattern long after the meditative breathing became second nature, and together they drifted, half asleep, simply resting. Outside, the birds began to call the sounds of summer, the barn swallows flitting to and fro about their home, tending to their eggs and bringing sticks for their next. Roach and Aerra grazed in the valley below, where the scrubby grass stood stiffly against the mountain wind, pushing back against the tidal wave of it that constantly ripped over these lands, even on the most pleasant days. And somewhere, far away, in the darkest part of the forest halfway up a mountain peak, a lidless eye watched. Silent, staring, it scattered all signs of life from the forest floor, spreading only rot and decay in its place. It stared in through Geralt’s tower window as the Witcher and his daughter slowly sank into sleep. It stared at the horses, at the swallows, at the other Witchers as they wandered about the castle. Its breath, foul and fetid, made the earth around it rise up and shrink away, baring the roots of pine trees which in turn shrivelled up and died. And yet, it stared on, a blight upon the forest that was growing ever larger. It watched. And it waited for its next chance to strike.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end. I'm sorry this took a few ages to get up, Whumptober kind of kicked my ass, but I'm back now!! As you can tell, I have definitely set this up for a sequel, which I plan on writing at some point, perhaps in December or the New Year. However, at the moment I'm feeling a bit insecure about this last chapter and I think I need to take a break from this particular story for a month or so just to figure out where I want to take it. I feel like I might have rushed a whole lot of information in this chapter...so I really hope it didn't feel that way. Anyways, let me know what you thought, and keep an eye out for other stuff I'm hoping to publish in the nearer future!! Thank you all so much for your kind comments and kudos throughout this story as well, they kept me going and always made me smile.
> 
> Lots of love and stay safe out there.


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